All for One
by Richefic
Summary: Athos tries to deal with the repercussions of Anne's reappearance in his life, whilst his brothers try to convince him he is a good man, aka the Milady Arc.. Spoilers for the entire season, not a romance, but a tale of missing scenes, angst, hurt/comfort, humour and brotherly love as a route to eventual healing. .
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – This incarnation belongs to the BBC.

AN – This might as aptly be titled my "milady arc" told through a series of missing scenes, (including the gap between 1.9 and 1.10!), where Athos tries to deal with the reappearance of Anne and his brothers try to convince him he is a good man.

Athos was alive.

In the weak winter light Aramis looked over at the face of his sleeping friend. His arm felt numb where it rested underneath Athos' shoulders. On the other side he could see Porthos curled on his side, one large hand resting lightly on Athos' chest so it rose and fell with each breath. Aramis grimaced as he realised Porthos head was an angle that would give him a crick in his neck which he would probably be complaining about for days to come. Deciding to take pity on Porthos, he kicked him softly, so that he came awake with a snort, rubbing at his neck and cracking a massive yawn.

"Athos needs to buy a bigger bed," He declared tiredly. "Or better still, stop this kind of nonsense."

"You couldn't have carried him back to _my_ lodgings?" Aramis asked, as he shifted trying to find a more comfortable position on the hard wooden floor. "We could have all fitted into my bed. And I own more than one chair."

"Next time you can carry 'im home," Porthos responded. "Besides, I didn't know, did I? I just thought he needed to sleep it off."

Aramis propped himself up on one elbow so he could take a better look at their patient. Athos' dark lashes stood out starkly against his too pale face. Deep smudges under his eyes stood testament to his complete exhaustion. Beneath his shirt, his body was battered and bruised. Each wrist was carefully wrapped in clean linen bandages.

"Almost lunchtime and he's finally sleeping," He observed, gently brushing a sweat soaked curl from Athos' brow. "It's a good thing Treville isn't expecting any of us to report for duty today."

"The Captain's a good man," Porthos agreed. "And a wise one, he knows Athos' true nature better than most."

On first meeting Athos could seem arrogant, even rude. But his friends knew this was simply a way of safe guarding his feelings. Despite his best efforts at being moody and unapproachable Athos found it impossible to hide his fierce loyalty and inherent kindness. He was also a man who felt injustice keenly and his own disgrace would be an open wound for some time yet.

"Despite present appearances," Aramis managed a rueful smile. "Things are not as nearly as bad as they used to be."

"That's true enough," Porthos had to agree. "It was months before he could endure our touch without flinching, longer still before he actually would actually accept our comfort, although, that first time we shared a bed that was actually his idea."

"Athos has always put others welfare before he own," Aramis remarked. "You had almost drowned and I had been chilled to the bone going in after you. Apart from the fact we were both freezing with only two full sets of dry clothes between the three of us, he was afraid to let us out of his sight."

"We should have known he was hurtin'," Porthos looked guilty. "He hasn't drunk that much or took himself off alone to do it like that in a long time."

"We did know he was hurting," Aramis reminded him. Not even a man as stoic as Athos could face a firing squad without some ill effects. An honourable death in battle was one thing, staring down the barrel of a musket as you wait for death to claim you for crimes you did not even commit was quite another. "We just didn't know how much."

After Aramis had found Adele not at home he had been debating a return to the tavern when Porthos had sent word that he should come to Athos' lodging with all haste. Aramis had expected to be called upon to patch up the bruised knuckles and sore ribs of a tavern brawl. He had not expected to find Pothos raging, his eyes flashing as he paced, his hands clenched into fists and the remains of a shattered bottle at the base of the wall evidence of his tenuous hold on his temper.

"_Treville shall hear of this," Porthos had hissed, his tone tight with fury. "Someone must pay."_

Athos had been sprawled on the bed in a drunken stupor. His weapons carefully placed on the table, boots placed neatly at the foot of his bed, jacket folded on a chair suggesting that Porthos had been in the process of putting him to bed when something had stayed his hand. As he approached Aramis felt his own anger building. Treville had insisted that Athos be placed in isolation due to the number of prisoners in the Chatelet who owned their incarceration to the musketeers. However, that had clearly not prevented the guards having their own petty revenge on a man they believed had disgraced his uniform.

There were no marks on his face. The guards were not that foolish. But his torso showed the clear marks of rough hands and violent blows. There was a boot print,_ a dammed boot print, _in the middle of his chest. And his wrists were marked and cut by the manacles he had been forced to wear, the skin rubbed raw in a way that could only have happened if he had been pulled and dragged around like some animal. Aramis suddenly found it hard to breathe. No wonder Porthos was beside himself.

"_I thought we was past this?" Porthos protested, appearing at his side. "Why would he keep this from us? Why would he not tell us?"_

It had taken Aramis some moments before he could find his voice. He had sunk down onto the bed and taken one of Athos' lax hands into his own. Running his thumb over his knuckles he began to stir Athos into wakefulness. He needed to clean and wrap those wrists and he knew from experience that it was not a good idea to startle Athos' from sleep.

"_Because I imagine he felt he deserved it." He remarked sadly._

They were all familiar with Athos' tendency to punish himself. He lived in this cold, bare, cell with only the barest of necessities. He had never taken a day's leave that wasn't caused by some injury. His only comfort was the company of his friends. He eschewed all other forms of entertainment. To Aramis' certain knowledge he had never pursued a relationship with any woman. Even his drinking seemed more like a penance than a pleasure. Isolated and alone it would have been difficult for Athos to believe he was worthy of the least kindness or consideration.

"_Right then," Porthos had visibly gathered himself. "You tend to his wounds. I'll stoke up the fire and fetch us some blankets. I've got a feeling it's gonna be a long night."_

Athos had held himself stiffly as Aramis had carefully cleaned his wounds and applied a healing salve, before gently wrapping up his wrists. Then Porthos had held a bowl and got him to take a few mouthfuls of broth, before they had spread the blankets out in front of the fire and tucked him in securely between them.

"_Not a word," Aramis had chided, putting a finger across Athos' lips' when he saw him trying to raise a protest. "We're all going to have nightmares about this. We won't leave you to face yours alone."_

Despite their comfort he had held out as long as his body would allow. Which given Athos' strength of will had turned out to be quite some time. Finally, he had slipped into oblivion, only to startle awake a short time later, his eyes wide and his brow clammy with sweat with those dreadful words on his lips.

"_Shoot, damn you!"_

After that it seemed that every ghost of his past was determined to torment him. He cried out for his brother Thomas, he begged his dead wife Anne for her forgiveness, he reached for the unseen figures of his mother and father, he cried silent tears for the time they had thought Porthos buried alive and clutched Aramis hand so tightly he though a bone might break, believing him lost in Savoy because they had not been there in time to save him.

"Nothing that suffers can pass without merit in the sight of God," Aramis quoted softly. "Athos, my friend, I think you have suffered more than enough for a whole legion of men."

"Why chose Athos?" Porthos asked suddenly.

"Hmm?" Aramis wasn't really listening.

"Gaudet could have picked any musketeer to discredit," Porthos sat up. "Why did he settle on Athos?"

"Athos is the finest soldier in the regiment," Aramis thought that was explanation enough. "Losing him would be a huge blow to morale."

"Maybe, someone should tell that to his Majesty," Porthos grumbled. "Five years of loyal service and the King did not even know who "this Athos" was that he was so keen to sentence to death."

"The Cardinal was particularly eager for Athos to be made an example of, now you mention it," Aramis recalled as he sat up in his turn, leaning back on his hands. "He was the one pressing for his execution."

"He might have done a bit of digging," Porthos looked pensive now, his brow furrowing. "If the Cardinal did have a hand in things he'd want to Treville brought as low as possible."

"Treville _has_ always been particularly fond of Athos," Armais agreed. "Although, his eminence is not the kind of man to get his own hands dirty, he generally leaves the sordid details to his minions."

"Do you think it might have had something to do with Athos' past?" Porthos asked carefully.

"Unlikely." Athos' voice surprised them.

"Athos, my friend," Porthos looked a little guilty. "We thought you were sleeping."

"That would be far easier to do without the two of you going back and forth over my head like a tennis match," Athos moved to sit up, giving Aramis a grateful look in lieu of a nod for his assistance, unwilling for the moment to move his head more than strictly necessary, he settled back against the side of the bed. "What time is it?"

"About midday," Aramis supplied.

"Is there anything left to drink?"

"Don't you think you had enough last night?" Porthos frowned.

"Are we expected at the Garrison?"

"Not until tomorrow," Aramis assured him. "Treville said if you showed up before then he would personally revoke your commission."

"Then no, if we are to finish this conversation I shall need a drink," Athos rubbed a hand over his face. "There should be a bottle of brandy up there in the rafters."

"Why do you keep it up there?" Aramis wondered.

"It's a rather fine almanac. It deserves better than to be swigged back like a cheap house red. This way at those times I am drunk enough to consider reneging on that principle I am also too drunk to climb up and retrieve it."

"Fair enough."

Porthos climbed up to retrieve the bottle. Aramis set about finding some clean glasses. All three of them took a moment to have a quick wash in cold water and take their ease. At Aramis pointed look Athos also changed out of his sweat soaked shirt before he could become chilled. Whilst his back was turned Aramis and Porthos combined their coin until they had enough to purchase a decent meal.

"Thank you, but I'm not hungry." Athos shook his head, when Porthos returned and busied himself ladling the pot of stew into three bowls.

"Try just a little," Aramis encouraged. "You need to eat if you are to be fit for duty."

Athos rolled his eyes at him, knowing exactly what he was trying to do. Still his innate good manners roused him to make at least the appearance of eating. As he touched the spoon to his lips he was surprised at the soft, tender meat, the tang of woodland mushrooms and the crunch of perfectly sautéed onions, all in a rich, red wine sauce, augmented with herbs.

"This is the beef stew from the tavern d'Or," He realised, touched beyond measure that his friends had most likely put themselves into poverty for the next week to purchase his favourite meal just to tempt his non-existent appetite. He swallowed hard for even after five years their unthinking kindness could still catch him unawares. "Gentlemen, you didn't have to do this."

"We know that," Porthos smiled at him, as he took his own bowl and settled on the bed next to him. "We wanted to."

"You are worth every last sous, I do not think you can hear that too often," Aramis passed him a glass of brandy, before sitting down beside him with his own meal. "Although, I would count it as a personal favour if you would consider buying some more chairs."

"When I first came to live here I wished to discourage company." Athos replied honestly.

"Yeah?" Porthos grinned around a mouthful of stew as he butted his shoulder fondly. "How's that working out for you?"

"Better than I could have ever imagined," Athos smiled fondly.

"So, who do you think might have wanted to frame you," Porthos returned to their earlier conversation.

"Nothing comes to mind," Athos sighed. "I have never been particularly interested in court politics. I can think of no adversary who would have the power to orchestrate something like this. Deciding matters with the point of a sword is so much more straightforward."

"Only if you have the courage to face your opponent," Aramis pointed out. "Maybe, your adversary did not wish to be known."

"It would be a funny kind of revenge if no-one knows you're doing it," Porthos pointed out. "Are you sure it ain't somehow connected with the time before you became a musketeer?"

"I don't see how," Athos shook his head. "My parents are dead. My wife had no surviving family. Thomas was my only living relative. There is only me left."

"There _was_ only you," Porthos corrected with a hint of steel as he gripped Athos' leg. "Now there's the three of us."

"And I thank God for it," Athos spoke very quietly. "I hope nothing I should ever say or do would lead you to think otherwise."

"Athos," Aramis slid a comforting arm around his shoulders. "You are our brother and we love you. No matter what lies behind or ahead, we will never forsake you."

"At least in Athos' case we don't have to worry about a woman scorned, eh?" Porthos joked, hoping to lighten the mood, only to quickly sober as Athos looked stricken and Aramis scowled at him. "Sorry," He apologised gruffly. "That was out of order, what with your wife being dead and all."

Athos briefly placed his hand over Porthos' in acceptance of his apology. He could not bring himself to meet his eyes. His friends knew that Thomas had been killed and that his wife was dead. He had not been able to bring himself to tell them that those two events were connected. Nor that Anne had died by his orders.

If God had any mercy he would take those secrets to his grave.

"Perhaps we should look closer to home," Aramis remarked. "A blood debt perhaps, a brother or son killed for their crimes, or one of the Cardinal's men who you've bested in a duel, in a position to whisper in his eminence's ear."

"That would be a pretty long list." Porthos commented.

"It is a plausible explanation," Athos sighed. His tendency not to hold back in a duel had embarrassed a number of the Cardinal's best men. "Perhaps, in a way I brought this on myself."

"You're not worried that it had anything to do with the boy?" Aramis frowned slightly. "Only you have rather been keeping him at arm's length?"

"No, his grief is sincere," Athos was sure of that. "He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Or the wrong place at the right time," Porthos allowed. "Seeing as he helped us clear your name and he's a fine a candidate for a musketeer as there could be. You should have seen 'im go after Gaudet. He was a right little terror."

"A talent like that would be wasted on a farm." Aramis observed lightly.

"You are wasting your breath, gentlemen," Athos scowled at them, not blind to their motives. "I am not looking for a protégé."


	2. Chapter 2

AN – Thanks so much to everyone for the reviews, favs and follows. I hope you will continue to enjoy as this epic unfolds!

Athos' return to the Garrison did go at all as he expected.

They had spent the previous night at Aramis' lodgings, because, as his friend was swift to point out, it had all the comforts a home should have. Lulled by a warm fire, a fine meal, good brandy made by Aramis' father, and the company of friends, Athos had slept surprisingly well. The one time he startled awake, his heart racing and his breath coming in short gasps, he had not been alone, Porthos a steady presence at his back, Aramis quick to soothe with a gentle touch and reassuring words.

"_Athos, look at me," Aramis placed a hand on either side of his face, his thumb rubbing lightly along his jaw, grounding him in the present. "We have you."_

In the morning Athos dressed with more than usual care. Clean braies and stockings, a fresh pair of breeches, a newly laundered shirt, his boots buffed to a shine. Adding their silent support, Aramis had taken apart and cleaned his musket for him, then polished his sword and main gauche till they looked like new. Porthos had taken his jacket and wiped away every last residue of the Chatelet.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Porthos looked on, his brow furrowing, as Aramis cleaned and redressed Athos' damaged wrists. "No-one will think less of you if you take another couple of days."

"Treville is expecting us." Athos reminded him.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a quick glance. Neither man had missed the fact that Athos had not claimed to be fully recovered. Sometimes it was more important to listen for the things he did not say.

"These bandages must be kept clean and dry," Aramis fixed him with a look. "Or the wounds may become infected."

To Athos' surprise and his friend's clear amusement it took him several minutes to cross the courtyard and ascend the stairs to Treville's office. It seemed as if every man in the regiment had turned out to shake his hand, or pat him on the back. Entering Treville's office he had fully expected things to be business as usual, only to have Treville come around his desk, wearing a broad smile, to take his hand in a warm, firm, grip and pull him into a brief, hard, hug.

"Athos, welcome back."

Feeling utterly nonplussed, Athos could barely find the words to offer up his thanks. It did not help matters that he could clearly hear the stage whispered conversation between his two friends.

"Told you he was the Captain's favourite." Porthos sounded amused.

"Well, he _is_ the finest soldier in the Regiment," Aramis mused. "His loss would be a great blow to us all."

"Gentlemen," Treville raised a mildly reproving brow at the pair of them. "You remember d'Artagnan?"

Athos head came up sharply. He had been so shocked by his warm reception by the ranks and Treville's affectionate greeting that he had not noticed the young Gascon lurking in the shadows. Now the young man stepped forward.

"He has expressed a desire to seek the King's commission to become a musketeer. Since I know Athos would never participate in an illegal duel I presume that was what the two of you were discussing the courtyard the other day?"

"Of course," Athos lied with a perfectly straight face. "The boy is promising but raw. If he can live long enough to learn from his mistakes he could do well."

"From Athos, that's high praise," Aramis translated cheerfully, for d'Artagnan's benefit. "Normally, he just tells those who turn up hoping to train as a musketeer to follow some other trade. He suggested the last one should become a blacksmith."

"He had strength and power and a degree of artistry, but lacked the presence of mind to keep his head in a fight." Athos defended his advice.

"It's been months since he told the Captain here that any of 'em were worth keeping." Porthos grinned.

"There is far more to becoming a King's musketeer than skill with a sword," Treville eyed d'Artagnan. "You must be accurate with a musket, be skilled in hand to hand combat, learn to think strategically under pressure and remain stoic but alert during what can be extremely long hours on parade."

"I can do that." D'Artagnan assured him with all the confidence of youth.

"And give your life in an instant if their Majesties are in danger?" Treville gave no ground.

"I would rather die a musketeer for something that matters than live a life of toil and strain like my father only to die a senseless death." D'Artagnan returned with quiet determination.

"S'a fine answer," Porthos said solidly, lending his support. "Ain't it, Athos?"

Athos' glare was one of his finest as he moved to lean against the wall and pointedly crossed his arms. He knew Treville was no man's fool. He doubted that it was simply a co-incidence that d'Artagnan had been awaiting them. He could see the glint in the man's eye which clearly said he was up to something.

"Gentleman," The Captain picked up a bundle of letters from the table and passed them to Aramis. "Your orders are to take these letters to the monastery at Mont St Michel, the monks will give you hospitality overnight, take your time. Paris is quiet at present and I would rather not have you three underfoot. It always seems to lead to trouble."

"So we carry the letters to the monastery, have a slap up feed, drink our fill, get a free bed for the night and make our way back to Paris in our own good time?" Porthos spoke up.

"So it appears." Athos' tone was expressionless.

"And the letters aren't in any way secret or some grave matter of state which will incur untold danger?" Aramis needed to be sure.

"Not this time," Treville sat back in his chair and looked directly at his brooding Lieutenant, making quite sure that he realised that his next words were an order. "Take d'Artagnan with you."

_That_ brought Athos upright, almost to attention, his dark eyes burning with intensity.

"Me?" d'Artagnan lit up with joy.

"If you are serious about a career in soldering this is as good an opportunity as any to see if you have any aptitude for it," Treville allowed. "You will follow Athos' orders in all things."

"Yes sir," d'Artagnan nodded eagerly. "I will be glad to serve in any way possible."

"Captain," Athos' tone was stiffly formal. "Might I have a word in private?"

D'Artagnan found himself outside the door and moving down the stairs before he could blink, courtesy of Porthos' firm grip on his collar and Aramis' hand steering him by the shoulder.

"What's that about?" d'Artagnan scowled.

"S'not you," Porthos said kindly. "It's complicated."

"Complicated?" d'Artagnan raised a brow.

Aramis did not particularly want to explain that he did not understand it himself. D'Artagnan would thrive under Athos' patient tutelage. And Athos always seemed a little less burdened when he could help others. If nothing else the boy's rare talent with a blade should have been an irresistible draw. And d'Artagnan was loyal, brave and honest. Athos himself had admitted he had no reason for distrust. Yet he seemed determined to keep his distance.

"Athos rarely knows what is good for him," Aramis shrugged as he poured four glasses of wine and set one in front of d'Artagnan. "You my friend, would be very good for him. We just have to help him realise it."

"Athos hasn't spent time with you like we have. He just needs a chance to get to know you." Porthos spoke kindly.

"Like on the road to Mont Saint Michel?" D'Artagnan suggested. "I take it this mission isn't the sort of thing you would usually do?"

"Not these sorts of missions, no," Porthos grinned. "Our kind of missions usually involve a whole lot of shooting and fighting, a bit of sneaking around, the odd fist fight, a few explosions and maybe even a bomb or two."

"We are fortunate that the good Captain has seen fitting to give us something of a holiday in celebration of Athos safe deliverance," Aramis did not think d'Artagnan needed to know that Athos was not quite fit for full duties. "He is not generally so sentimental."

"Perhaps, I should get sentenced to death more often," Athos mocked lightly, as he came down the stairs.

"Don't even go there," Porthos warned even as his stomach clenched at the unpleasant memory of his friend facing the assembled muskets of the firing squad. "Or I might have to hurt you."

"My apologies," Athos eyes softened, as he laid a hand on Porthos' soldier.

Aramis tracked his friend's movements as he walked around the back of d'Artagnan, helped himself to a glass of wine and then sat down next to the boy. To all outwards appearances he seemed fine. Even Aramis' sharp eyes would have missed the subtle signs if he hadn't known Athos so well.

Something Treville had said had profoundly shaken him.

"If you are coming with us, hadn't you better go and pack?" Aramis smiled brightly at d'Artagnan.

"Am I still coming?" The boy looked to Athos.

"You heard the Captain's orders," Athos nodded calmly, as if he had not just had a stand up fight with Treville. "We leave in an hour. If you are late we _will_ go without you."

A low growl from Porthos' stomach reminded Aramis that none of them had had breakfast yet and gave him a plan, of sorts. Rising to his feet he headed off to the kitchen, filled a large platter with cheese and meats and collected another bottle of wine. On his return he circled around the table to take the place next to Athos just vacated by d'Artagnan. Athos pressed his lips together tightly and wordlessly moved to increase the distance between them. Aramis sighed and supposed he should be glad he had not punched him.

"Would you care to talk about it?" He carefully did not make eye contact.

"Not even remotely."

"Can't be that bad," Porthos encouraged. "He only just got you back."

Athos let his head drop forward onto his chest, an uncharacteristic sign of weakness that had the two of them exchanging a faint look of alarm. Deciding he did not care if it did get him punched Aramis placed his hand on the nape of Athos' neck and squeezed gently, needing his friend to know they were there for him, no matter what.

Taking strength from his comfort Athos forced himself to rally, lifting his head, straightening his back, squaring his shoulders and talking a long swallow of wine to fortify himself before speaking.

"It has been pointed out to me that I have done you gentlemen something of a disservice. Treville is correct, it is ungracious of me to object to being given light duties in respect of my recent incarceration as 'needless coddling' when you both worked tirelessly to clear my name and have tended to my needs at the expense of my own."

"Athos, we _all _need this," Porthos reminded him. "Being in prison wasn't exactly a picnic for you, in case you've forgotten."

"That's not all Treville said is it?" Aramis observed astutely.

Treville had, in fact, said many things. After his initial protests Athos had been stunned into silence as the Captain, still reeling a little from how close he had come to losing a man he could not love more fiercely if he were his own flesh and blood, had not held back. But there was one particular thing which went right to the crux of the matter and had left Athos reeling.

"I am sorry," He managed, rising to his feet. "I simply cannot."

Torn between concern for his well-being and respect for his privacy, Porthos and Athos watched with consternation as Athos stalked off towards the relative privacy of the stables.

"Guess, it was that bad, after all," Porthos observed unhappily.

"Go after him," Aramis decided. Athos might not wish to talk to them but that did not mean they shouldn't have his back. "I'll go see what I can get out of Treville."

"You sure that's a good idea?" Porthos frowned.

"Probably quite a bad one," Aramis admitted, with a tight grin. "But I like to live dangerously. Besides, you've got Athos."

"Yeah," Porthos frowned, looking around. "Is there any more wine?"

Aramis entered Treville's office braced for confrontation. He was surprised to see his commanding officer sitting at his desk looking unusually defeated. He went and poured out a single measure of bandy and placed it silently on the desk. His Captain stared at the glass but did not drink.

"I told him d'Artagnan wasn't Thomas."

"As in, not everyone Athos chooses to love is doomed to die?" Aramis hazarded.

"How much do you know about Thomas?" Treville looked up at him.

"It would seem not as much as you."

Aramis was surprised. He knew Treville had had some acquaintance with Athos before he became a musketeer. He had not considered that he might also have crossed paths with his brother.

"Just answer the question, Aramis."

"I know he died five years ago. That Athos blames himself. Not the how or the why of it."

Except that it had been somehow violent and ugly, and that Athos had most likely found his body, judging by the way his friend would thrash about in his sleep, silent tears streaming down his face, railing in helpless fury, calling out Thomas' name in a cry of utter despair as he always _always _failed to save his brother.

Treville was searching his face as if looking for something more. But Aramis kept his expression a mask of polite enquiry and told none of that.

"There was a situation," Treville admitted finally. "Thomas misjudged it and paid with his life. If he had not acted so rashly his death might have been prevented."

"So he looks at our impetuous little Gascon and sees the younger brother he did not save?" Aramis sighed.

He thought about what Athos must see when he considered d'Artagnan, a boy on the cusp of manhood. Eager, a little naive, rather too willing to believe the best of people and far too hot headed for his own good. Little wonder he feared becoming too attached to the boy when he knew from bitter experience that such a life could too easily be snuffed out by a single rash action.

"You said you told him d'Artagnan _wasn't_ Thomas." Aramis recalled.

"Thomas had charm and good humour. But he was more at home with his books and his music than with intrigue and danger," Treville gave Aramis a telling look. "He would never have got the better of Gaudet."

Entering the stables Aramis headed straight for the ladder that led to the hay loft. Climbing up he found Porthos and Athos exactly where he knew they would be, sitting in the far corner wordlessly passing a bottle of wine back and forth between them. Aramis raised a brow at Porthos when he noticed that Athos' eyes were somewhat damp, but he did not speak of it. He merely settled himself on Athos' other side and held out his hand for the bottle.

"You know, when I was wild with grief after Savoy I might have lost myself forever had Treville not seen fit to place us together," Aramis spoke frankly. "You were my rudder through a world of turmoil when I could not see my own way."

"When I was young and angry at the world for the hand it had dealt me, you taught me how to proud of who I was," Porthos quickly caught on. "And then you showed me how to be an even better man until I felt the equal of any in the regiment."

"Can you not bring yourself to be that man for d'Artagnan also?" Aramis nudged him gently.

"You were a soldier before I met you," Athos pointed out. "Porthos grew up learning to take care of himself on the streets. Neither one of you ever required my services as a nursemaid."

"Did you know," Aramis offered lightly as if it was of no account, "That when we needed a distraction to gain access to Gaudet's encampment, our young innocent d'Artagnan persuaded the respectable Madame Bonacieux to dress as a prostitute and offer herself to one of the guards to do whatever he liked for 10 sous?"

He counted the way that Athos spat out his wine in a fountain of spray as a singular victory.

"Now don't that sound like someone you'd at least like to get to know a little better?" Porthos grinned.


	3. Chapter 3

AN – Thanks to everyone for their support of this story, especially the anon reviews where I can't respond personally. Hope you all enjoy the next instalment.

Perhaps predictably d'Artagnan arrived a good quarter to the hour early. Aramis and Porthos shared a pleased look as Athos quietly took him aside and had him unpack every item in his saddle bags and showed him how to repack them in the manner of a solider, adding in extra gunpowder and shot from the armoury, addition rations from the kitchen and a bedroll and a second blanket from the stores to augment his meagre belongings.

"It's a start," Aramis murmured. "Although, he would do the same for any new recruit."

"He could have told one of us to do it." Porthos replied sotto voice.

"I hadn't thought of that," Aramis' lips quirked. "Not a bad start then."

"Gentlemen," Athos broke off from what he was doing to give them a pointed look. "If you two aren't ready I will not hesitate to leave you behind."

They hastened to obey.

The sky was a bright clear blue as they rode out of the Garrison. As they made their way through the busy streets of Paris, weaving in and out between the carts and people, Athos noted with some approval that d'Artagnan had a good seat and guided his mount with skilful hands.

"He grew up on a farm," Aramis spoke from beside him. "Ten Sous says he's a better rider than you."

Out in the countryside where the weak winter sun reflected off the patches of snow still lying in low and shaded spots, the race was a close run thing, all of them taking joy in the wind and speed of it. Aramis won, of course, d'Artagnan and Athos were a dead heat just a neck behind and Porthos half a length after them.

They stopped for lunch in a small clearing. Falling into long established habits, Aramis cared for the horses, Athos collected the wood and set the fire, Porthos gathered up provisions and set a warming soup to simmer without a word needed between them.

"What should I do?" d'Artagnan wondered.

"Want to try a little sword work while this cooks?" Porthos offered with a grin. "Fair warning, I'm not one for them fancy moves. I like _winning_."

"Porthos," Athos warned laconically. "Do try not to break him."

"It's alright," d'Artagnan assured, giving Porthos a cocky grin. "I like a challenge."

A little later, kneeling in the dirt, feeling utterly spent, barely able to force the air in and out of his own lungs as he rested his hands on his knees, and sore in places he hadn't quite expected under the code of duelling, d'Artagnan could admit he might have had a _slightly_ inflated idea of his ability with a sword. Porthos had fought like a demon.

"You. Were," he realised, forcing the words out, between harsh breaths. "Going. Easy. On. Me."

"That's your idea of easy?" Porthos raised a brow.

"Not, you." D'Artagnan looked up, as his breathing began to slow. "Athos, before."

They all looked at Athos who looked slightly discomforted by their joint scrutiny. Although, Aramis was quite sure it was the boy's clear gaze that caused two pink spots of embarrassment to appear in his cheeks.

"You were driven by grief. It would have been dishonourable to take advantage of the way you could not contain your emotions," Athos allowed stiffly. "I meant no insult. You fought bravely."

"No," d'Artagnan scrambled to his feet, his distress that Athos had taken his words as a rebuke written all over his face. "I meant .. thank you. I acted like an idiot and you behaved with honour."

"You wished to avenge your father. Your intentions were commendable," Athos gave him a look. "If a little over zealous."

"I'll try to work on that." D'Artagnan gave a totally disarming lop sided smile.

"You'll forgive me if I don't take that wager," Athos said amusement softening his words.

They ate in quiet companionship then d'Artagnan was set to scouring their plates and dishes in a bucket whilst Porthos and Aramis played a few hands of cards and Athos napped under his hat. The two friends exchanged an approving look. Athos badly needed the rest and was less often plagued by nightmares when he slept during the day.

"You know, a little help would have been nice?" d'Artagnan groused as he finally finished. "The grease set hard as stone."

"We were helping," Aramis replied without looking at him as he dealt another card. "We were watching your back. These woods aren't like your nice cultivated fields. They can be very dangerous places. We might be attacked by bandits, waylaid by Spanish spies, fall prey to some hunter's trap, plunge into raging water."

"Exactly how gullible do you think I am?" d'Artagnan challenged.

"Pretty gullible if you think none of those things have ever happened to us," Porthos put in. "Even with the best of training being a musketeer ain't no picnic."

"Porthos once almost killed himself by getting lost in the woods because he had never seen so many trees in a single place before and they all looked alike to him," Aramis remarked. "Oh and did I say it was the very height of summer so that by the time we found him he was gasping for water and so far from himself that he barely knew us."

"Yeah, yeah," Porthos scowled. "What about that time Athos was bit by that wolf and nearly died of the fever?"

"Bitten by a _wolf_?" d'Artagnan scoffed. "Now I know you're not serious."

"Athos," Porthos looked over to where his friend was just stirring. "Show him your scar. He'll never believe us otherwise."

"A story for another time, perhaps," Athos declared. "We should get back on the road."

D'Artagnan had been a little nervous about meeting the Abbott but the manners his father had taught him stood him in good stead. As they made their farewells and rode away the next morning, Porthos clapped him on the back, Aramis doffed his hat to him, but it was Athos look of quiet pride which warmed his soul.

As they travelled back towards Paris it began to cloud over and then darkened ominously. D'Artagnan pulled on his brown leather cloak and watched with open envy as his companions donned the blue of the musketeer regiment. Then the skies opened and the rains came and just kept on coming.

D'Artagnan did not think he had ever been quite so wet. He grimaced as yet another trickle of rain found its way under his collar to snake down his back. He was quite literary soaked to the skin. His shirt stuck damply to his body where his jacket had proved insufficient protection. His toes were almost swimming inside his boots and his entire world smelt of damp leather and wet horse.

"Bet you thought being a musketeer would be a mite more glamorous than this." Porthos offered from beside him.

"A little," d'Artagnan grinned ruefully. "I thought I'd escaped being out in all weathers. At least on the farm there was always a barn to shelter in."

"Perhaps you should take my advice and invest in a hat?" Aramis suggested. "They really are quite useful for keeping one dry."

"Our little Gascon is worried it'll mess up his hair." Porthos put in.

"Because that would be unthinkable," Athos eyed the "drowned rat" look d'Artagnan was presently sporting, as his hair hung in wet strings around his face with wry amusement.

D'Artagnan felt a little spurt of joy that this man who was generally so reserved was comfortable enough in his presence to actually tease him.

The bandits who were stupid enough to try and ambush them and then refuse to believe they carried nothing of value were almost a welcome distraction. They did not even bother to dismount. Aramis shot one in the shoulder. Porthos punched another in the face. Athos used the pommel of his sword to knock a third senseless. D'Artagnan slipped his foot from the stirrup and kicked the final man in the face.

"Nice move." Porthos praised, with a grin.

But then as he went to wheel his horse around his expression turned to consternation as the animal lost its footing in the mud, pitching him over its shoulder to land hard on the wet ground and lie un-moving.

"Porthos?" Aramis stood up in his stirrups.

"I hate it when that happens." Porthos groused, from his prone position on the ground.

Aramis assured them all there was no serious damage but the myriad of bruises on the shoulder which had taken the brunt of the impact was obvious even against his darker skin. As was Porthos,' increasingly tight, closed, expression, as the joint was continuously jarred by the road.

"There's a village up ahead," Aramis called back over his shoulder. "It's large enough to have an Inn. Given the amount of coaches on this road it might even be quite decent."

"Is that allowed?" D'Artagnan asked hopefully.

"Depends on the mission," Porthos told him. "Sometimes, we need to move fast, then there ain't no time to rest. Other times we have to move in secret. Not even a fire in case it gives away our position."

"What about tonight?" d'Artagnan twisted around in his saddle to look at Athos. "Can we stay tonight?"

"We'd all do better for a good night's rest and a hot meal," Aramis looked across at Athos before lowering his voice to a murmur. "And Porthos really shouldn't be sleeping on the ground with that shoulder."

The only Inn in the village turned out to be a very respectable establishment. It was also almost fully occupied. The only room available had a four poster bed, an enormous fireplace, an antechamber with a private bath tub and cost an eye watering amount. D'Artagnan wondered forlornly if they might be allowed to sleep in the stables.

"We'll take it." Athos didn't hesitate.

"You're a good man, Athos," Aramis patted his shoulder. "Have I told you recently just how much I love you?"

"It's still your turn to go last in the bathtub." Athos reminded him.

"You wound me," Aramis placed a hand over his heart, as they all claimed a table by the fire, shedding wet cloaks and hats. "Wait, does that include d'Artagnan? Because he wasn't even with us the last time we had the luxury of hot water to bathe in."

"Nor, I imagine does he have the habit of wallowing for hours until the water is too cold for the rest of us," Athos retorted dryly. "Besides, he has ridden longer and harder today than he would in a week at home in Gascony, without complaint. I think he has earned the right to precede you."

"It's fine," D'Artagnan felt warmed by the unexpected praise but he did not want to presume. "Aramis can have my turn."

"Are you saying you _aren't_ sore?" Athos demanded.

Belatedly catching the way Aramis was shaking his head at him and Porthos was giving him a 'back off' look, d'Artagnan realised that countermanding Athos' instruction had perhaps not been the best course of action. For all Aramis and Porthos took certain liberties d'Artagnan had noticed that when Athos gave an order it was followed without question.

"Um, a little," d'Artagnan hastily backtracked. "Perhaps a bath would be nice?"

"Now he's getting it." Porthos chortled.

Supper was a lively affair, with Aramis constantly topping up his glass with wine and Porthos piling extra food on his plate as they vied with each other to tell ever more outrageous tales. Even Athos was cajoled into telling the story about the wolf, pulling up the leg of his breeches to show the scar on his calf as d'Artagnan looked on in awe.

"Anyone fancy a hand of cards?" Porthos asked when they'd eaten.

"I think a different kind of diversion might just have presented itself," Aramis smirked. Following his gaze d'Artagnan saw two well-dressed young woman sitting down to dinner with a man who was obviously their father. Glancing at the Gascon he waggled his eyebrows. "And she has a younger sister."

"Thank you, but no," D'Artagnan tipped his glass at him. "The last time I pursued a liaison with a beautiful woman I encountered at an Inn she tried to frame me for murder."

"I beg your pardon?" Athos frowned.

"You really are full of surprises, aren't you?" Aramis remarked.

"That's your "unfinished business?"" Porthos chortled. "I hope she was worth it."

"A gentleman never tells," d'Artagnan smiled across at his friend. "But she wasn't the sort of woman any man could easily forget."

"How did you get away?" Aramis asked.

"I jumped out of a first floor window." D'Artagnan winced at the memory. "I think I cracked a rib, or two."

"See how much trouble he can get into without our help?" Porthos looked pointedly at Athos.

Raising his eyes to meet Athos' gaze d'Artagnan felt rather abashed. His father's body had been barely cold and he had taken an unknown woman into his bed. Even if she wasn't married she had clearly been in a relationship with her traveling companion. He was fairly sure she hadn't even told him her real name.

His father would have been rightly furious.

"I wouldn't usually behave like that," He tried to explain, feeling the blush rise in his face. "I hope you don't think .."

"Grief does funny things to people." Porthos spoke kindly.

"And the comfort of a striking woman can be great balm to a wounded soul." Aramis' tone was understanding.

"Monsieur Athos, your bath is ready." The serving girl advised.

"Porthos, take my turn," Athos told him. "You need it more than I."

Unlike d'Artagnan Porthos did not argue he simply made a slight detour to the bar, bought a bottle of red, silently placed it in front of Athos, clapped him on the shoulder in thanks and went off to let the hot water ease his bruises.

"I'd better help him," Aramis decided. "He's going to have trouble undressing and that's his favourite shirt."

Left alone with Athos, d'Artagnan pressed his lips together tightly. He almost wished the man would reprimand him for his behaviour. He remembered how often his father had scolded him for being too hot-headed, or making rash decisions. Now his father was gone and he had no idea how he was going to live in a world without him.

It was only when Athos topped up his glass and wordlessly nudged it towards him that he realised he was crying.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan scrubbed impatiently at his face. "I don't know what's got into me lately. I don't normally behave like this either."

"You have not allowed yourself the time to grieve." Athos surprised him.

"I thought if I kept busy it would hurt less," D'Artagnan risked a glance at Athos' expression and seeing only compassion was emboldened to continue. "I miss him, so much. It all happened so quickly. I just can't believe that he's gone."

Athos all too vividly remembered how Thomas was also gone from his life in an instant, how raw and gaping the wound, how long it had taken to accept that he was truly lost to him.

"My father was a good man," d'Artagnan spoke quietly. "He deserved to live to old age and die in his bed, surrounded by friends and family. Not bleed to death in the street whilst I could do _nothing_ to save him."

Athos own memories came unbidden, the look of pain in Thomas' eyes, the harsh ratting breaths, far too much blood, and his own utter helplessness as he tried to bring him back to life.

"And do you know the worst part?" d'Artagnan met his gaze, his expression stricken. "I might have saved him. If only I had been at his side he could still be alive. I don't think I will ever forgive myself for that."

Athos gripped his wine glass so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"I am quite certain your father would not wish to spend your life in recriminations," He managed. He would _not_ allow this promising youth to blight his entire life because of a tragic accident. "His memory would be far better served by fulfilling your goal to become a musketeer."

"Treville said that if you gave a good report of me, I would need to find someone to sponsor my training," d'Artagnan gave a soft, hopeful, smile. "I don't suppose you know anyone who could help with that?"

"I'll speak to Treville in support of your acceptance as soon as we return," Athos vowed, secretly more than a little pleased at being the cause of the boy lit up with joy at his words. He deserved this chance. "I am sure the Captain will find someone willing to oversee your training."

"But .." d'Artagnan's face fell. He swallowed hard and summoned his courage "I would rather have you."

"No," Athos was not about to explain himself. But they were too much alike. Their grief and pain too intertwined. He would be no good for the boy. "You wouldn't."

"D'Artagan's turn for the bath tub," Aramis announced brightly, appearing at Athos' elbow. "Try not to take too long or use too much soap. Nobody likes to wash in lukewarm scum."

He paused, looking carefully from one to the other. Athos' face was like stone. D'Artagnan looked close to tears.

"My apologies, if I am interrupting something."


	4. Chapter 4

AN – Apologies for the delay in posting, work commitments have been insane but I hope the length of this chapter helps to make up for the waiting.

Making his way upstairs to their shared room d'Artagnan's movements were stiff with hurt and his expression sour with resentment at Athos' rejection. Focused on his own feelings he stalked straight past Porthos, without so much as an acknowledgement. Entering the small ante chamber where the bathtub was waiting he took a particular pleasure in the loud slam of the door, followed by the satisfying thud each of his boots made as he kicked them off to fly across the room and land at the base of the far wall.

"What's eatin' him?"

D'Artagnan froze as Porthos' voice came clearly thorough the thin partition wall. An indistinct murmur that could only be Aramis answered him. It was followed by the sounds of a cork being pulled from a bottle and liquid being poured into glasses.

"Athos, come and sit by the fire," Aramis invited. "You'll catch your death skulking over there in those damp clothes."

"Thank you for your concern, but I'm fine." Athos responded tonelessly.

"Athos, my friend," Feet crossed the floor. "Don't do this to yourself. You only want what you feel is best for the boy."

_Me?_ D'Artagnan felt a lurch of surprise. _He's worrying about me?_

"He thinks me heartless." Athos' voice sounded unexpectedly pained.

"Nonsense," Aramis scoffed kindly. "If anything, you feel things too deeply. Look how you take on every hurt or slight to Porthos or I as if it were to your own person. And now you are torturing yourself over the welfare of young d'Artagnan despite the brevity of our acquaintance."

"I cannot lose another brother," Athos' tone sounded raw. "Not for nothing but youthful folly. I simply cannot."

"_Oh Athos_."

There were sounds of rustling and movement followed by a murmur of words followed too soft to penetrate the wall between them, even if d'Artagnan could have heard anything over the roaring sound in his ears. _His brother died for some impetuous act? _D'Artagnan felt his chest clench in dismay at the way his recent words must have rubbed salt in _that_ wound. _No wonder he judges me._

"It's gone pretty quiet in there," Porthos observed suddenly. "You think he's drowned?"

Belatedly, d'Artagnan realised that they would be expecting to hear the sounds of water sloshing around the bathtub and see him emerge looking freshly washed. Reaching over he used a hand to agitate the water for a while, then he quickly stripped down to braises before taking a deep breath and ducking his head into the water, before emerging gasping and shaking droplets off his long hair.

"You're a little warm." On the other side of the wall Aramis' voice sounded worried.

"You were the one who dragged me closer to the fire." Athos responded dryly.

"This one's infected," Porthos spoke up. "Looks nasty."

"I suppose clean _and _dry was rather too much to ask for in our present circumstances," Aramis sounded resigned. "If I flush them out and leave them open to the air for tonight we may yet save your hand."

"That would be a comfort." Athos sounded _amused_ of all things.

On the other side of the door d'Artagnan sank down onto the floor and dropped his head into his hands. Athos was _wounded_? And badly if what he had overheard was to be believed. And yet the man had not given the least outward sign of discomfort, at least not in _his_ presence. They had been on the road since yesterday morning. Aramis must have cleaned and re- dressed his wounds at least twice without his knowledge, no wonder the finest soldier the regiment did not want to be burdened with such a self-obsessed _child_.

He was not quite sure how long he sat there. When one of the candles suddenly burnt itself out he realised with a guilty start that it was much longer than it should have been and the bathwater was long since cold and covered in soap scum. Resigning himself to a well-deserved dressing down for depriving both Athos and Aramis of its comfort, he gathered up his discarded clothes and stepped quietly back into the room. Only to be met with a sight that was nothing like he expected.

The three musketeers were sat on the floor in front of the fire, their feet stretched out towards its warmth, their backs resting against the foot of the large bed. All three were sound asleep. Aramis was still fully clothed save for his hat, left on a table by the door, Porthos was comfortable in shirt and braies, Athos was halfway between the two his unlaced shirt giving d'Artagnan his first look at the vivid bruising on his chest and raw welts on his wrists.

Porthos was pressed up against Athos' shoulder, bracing him as it seemed against the ills of the world. Aramis' head was tipped back, as he snored softly, his arm was wrapped around Athos' shoulder, in a gesture of affection d'Artagnan would have sworn Athos would never permit. For his part Athos' hand was resting on Porthos leg and his head was pillowed on Aramis' shoulder in a show of absolute trust. As he slowly climbed into the enormous four poster bed, d'Artagnan vowed that he would find some way to be worthy of the friendship of these three men.

By the time he woke the next morning it was to find the room flooded with light and empty apart from Athos who sat in the window seat in his shirtsleeves, one booted foot crossed over the other, as he read from a small volume.

"So, you're awake then," Athos spared him a look but did not wait for a reply. "Aramis is seeing to the horses. Porthos is fetching us breakfast. Take your time. It's an easy day's ride back to Paris so we are in no particular hurry."

"Right," d'Artagnan scrambled out of bed anyway, feeling the awkwardness of the previous night hanging over him. Remembering his resolution he went over to his saddle bags and rummaged around. Finding the small metal tin he was looking for he presented it a little shyly.

"This salve was my mother's recipe," He gave a bashful smile as he nodded at the red raw wrists. "It's good for wounds."

Athos looked up sharply, shock and surprise written clearly across his face. D'Artagnan was not sure if it was the small act of kindness that he found so startling or that the Gascon had been so swift to forgive him. It made d'Artagnan feel bitterly ashamed of his petulance and all the more determined to do whatever he could to prove his worth.

"Thank you." Athos held his gaze, causing d'Artagnan to blush slightly.

"About last night," d'Artagnan determined to be a man his father would have been proud of. A man _Athos _could be proud of. "I apologise for my behaviour. I am not usually so ill mannered. I would be most grateful for any recommendation you might see fit to give to Captain Treville."

"Of course," Athos pressed his lips together slightly. D'Artagnan felt a surge of hope at the indecision warring in his eyes. But then Athos continued. "Treville is a fine Captain. You will be in good hands."

Perhaps predictably Treville was not best pleased with Athos' decision.

His Lieutenant gave a good report of d'Artagnan's conduct. Behind Athos' careful words and emotional reserve, Treville detected a developing fondness for the young Gascon, a certain degree of exasperation at his youthful over confidence, but a solid certainly that with time and proper training he had the character to overcome any deficiencies.

"I could order you to take the boy on." He regarded him closely.

"You could," Athos hesitated. "I would take it as a particular kindness if you did not."

Treville looked away. That Athos had even asked. That he had phrased it in such a way. His Lieutenant had never presumed on their personal relationship. The Captain feared it would be an unforgiveable breach of the trust between them if he insisted on this. Even if it was for the man's own good.

"Very well," Treville agreed, his soldier's mind already formulating a plan. He could rotate d'Artagnan's assignments under the guise of assessing his skills and hold off on making any permanent decision about the boy's future in the hope that Athos would come to his senses. "Ask d'Artagnan to come up here would you?"

D'Artagnan tried to convince himself it didn't matter as long as he had a chance to become a musketeer. He still saw Athos almost every day. The musketeer would always meet his eyes, giving a swift nod of acknowledgement or a slight quirk of his lips which left d'Artagnan feeling more bereft than as if the man had marched past without a word. Hoping for a little comfort, he spoke to Constance, only to receive short shift when she would not hear a word against Athos.

"I really thought we could be friends," d'Artagnan sighed, the hope that Athos' steady presence could fill the aching void left in his life by the death of his father too painful to actually voice. "I wish there was a way to show him that I can take care of myself."

"Athos is a good man," Constance asserted. "If he doesn't want to sponsor you I'm sure he has his reasons."

"I thought you'd be on my side," d'Artagnan pouted a little at her spirited defence. "How do you know Athos anyway?"

He hadn't forgotten that she had been prepared to risk her reputation and pose as a prostitute to help Athos, even if she had saved his life soon after.

"It only happened the one time and it was years ago now so I don't need you doing anything stupid," Constance warned abruptly. "When Athos first joined the regiment he came to order some new shirts and when he saw the bruise. Well let's just say he made sure I don't have to worry about it ever happening again."

"Are you saying your husband hit you?" d'Artagnan was horrified. "There was a _bruise_?"

"Like I said," Constance's tone made it clear this conversation was over. "Athos took care of it."

D'Artagnan had learnt that the musketeer was a man of high principles and deep compassion. When Athos had come across him cleaning every bridle in the tack room he had expected a scalding reprimand.

"What did you do?"

"I'm not sorry and I won't apologise." D'Artagnan was defiant.

"Good to know," Athos took a step into the room. He reached out and carefully tilted d'Artagnan's jaw into the light, examining the rather spectacular bruise. "Although, I dare say that attitude did little to placate Treville."

"The Captain wanted me to tell him the cause of the fight," d'Artagnan's eyes were lit with fierce determination. "I would take any punishment to spare Porthos that."

"I see," Athos truly did. He had fought enough battles of his own, protecting his friend from the snide comments and prejudice judgements of those around them. He raised a brow. "I hope you won."

D'Artagnan felt something tense uncoil inside him when he realised Athos did not judge him for his spirited defence of someone who had shown him nothing but kindness. All the more so when Athos sat down beside him and started to clean one of the bridles in small, neat, circles in a silent show of support.

When Aramis' prized stallion suffered a nasty cut on its leg, but its devoted rider was called away on the King's business, d'Artagnan made up endless poultices to draw out the swelling.

"It's healing nicely," Aramis could not keep the surprise and relief from his voice when they returned. He gave the horse a fond pat. "I think you're going to be alright boy."

It was Athos who noticed the huddled figure sound asleep in the back of the stall, utterly exhausted from watching over his charge in addition to training. As he gently covered d'Artagnan with his cloak, he half feared Aramis might mock him for his sentimentality, but his friend seemed unaccountably proud of him for the gesture. It was only in hindsight that Athos would realise the role his brothers had played in bringing the two of them together.

"He's been at that for an hour now and he still hasn't managed to hit the bulls eye once," Porthos murmured as he looked over at d'Artagnan. The three musketeers were in the courtyard, checking over their horses and equipment before they rode out. Yet Aramis had not so much as glanced at the firearms lesson going on mere feet away. "Ain't you going to help 'im out?"

"Nope," Aramis said with a tight grin.

"A fraction too far to the right," Renard stated the obvious. D'Aragnan groaned with frustration but the seasoned Musketeer was unmoved. "Try again."

Porthos frowned, about to object. Then Aramis tipped his head a little in Athos' direction. On their other side Athos was also walking around his horse, checking its tack and running a hand down its legs. But between each necessary action his gaze kept being drawn back to an increasingly dispirited d'Artagnan.

"Oh, I get it." Porthos grinned.

Seeing Athos flick a glance, and then another, in Aramis' direction, obviously wondering if he was going to offer his expertise, Aramis decided to make it quite clear he wasn't going to get involved. Putting his foot in the stirrup he mounted smoothly. Grinning broadly Porthos followed suit.

"He's not going to be able to resist helpin', is he?"

"This _is_ Athos, we're talking about." Aramis agreed smugly.

"A little to the left this time," Renard informed the Gascon needlessly as the bullseye was missed yet again. Almost beside himself with frustration d'Artagnan kicked at the dirt.

"You're thinking about it too much," Athos' voice was suddenly in his ear. His arm came around him correcting his aim a fraction, a foot nudged his feet slightly wider apart. "Don't think, just breathe."

This time d'Artagnan made a perfect shot, straight through the centre of the target. Behind him he could hear Aramis applauding. But it was the warmth of Athos' hand on his back that lingered as he was left alone in the courtyard as the others rode out. It was some days before he saw them again. Coming back to the garrison having delivered a message for Treville his heart leapt to see Aramis dismounting in the courtyard, his face pinched and tight with concern with Porthos standing by, his brow deeply furrowed, holding both his and Athos' horse.

"Athos?" He demanded urgently, knowing only the feeling of sick dread in his stomach as he couldn't locate the other man, unaware of how swiftly his face had paled. "Is he injured?"

The look that passed between Aramis and Porthos was so quick as to be almost un-noticeable. Although the compassionate hand Aramis laid on his shoulder spoke volumes.

"Don't concern yourself. Athos is quite well. He's upstairs, speaking with Treville."

"But your faces, I thought.." D'Artagnan trailed off, belatedly realising that that there were a thousand other reasons men charged with the safety of the King himself could look concerned.

"You ever heard of Vadim?" Porthos asked, as he passed the horses to Jacques the stable boy and headed to the table where Old Serge was already laying out wine, glasses and cold meats.

"Should I have?" D'Artagnan asked guardedly as he sank into a seat.

"He's a criminal, nasty sort, but clever with it," Porthos uncorked the wine and splashed it into four glasses in a simple gesture which made d'Artagnan's sharp loneliness retreat just a fraction. "He's stolen enough gunpowder to blow up half of Paris and word is he's recruited enough men to make an army."

"And you're trying to find him?" d'Aratgnan guessed.

"No, we know exactly where he is," Aramis joined then, picking up one of the glasses and downing it in one. "A couple of Red Guards picked him up when he was visiting his mistress. He's been cooling his heels in the Chatelet since then. But he's not talking. "

"Treville shares our concern. The King and Queen must not be put at risk," Athos put in as he descended the stairs. "It is imperative we discover Vadim's intentions."

"The Queen always pardons a few deserving prisoners at this time of year," Aramis observed, as Athos sat down and picked up a glass. "Perhaps, one of them might be bribed to spend their last night or two with Vadim and see what they might uncover?"

"S'risky," Porthos demurred. "Vadim has a lot of power. Most criminals would be more scared of 'im than us. It's gotta be someone we can trust not to turn traitor."

"I could get arrested again," Athos said blandly. "It would be a simple matter to provoke an illegal duel."

"Sadly your recent incarceration his given you a certain notoriety," Aramis shrugged apologetically. "You would be instantly known as a musketeer."

"I could do it," Porthos spoke up quietly. But he did not meet their eyes and his body language looked stiff and tense.

"No," Athos and Aramis spoke as one, causing d'Artagnan's eyes to widen slightly.

"Porthos my friend, you have worked hard to make your name as a King's musketeer. You can hardly complain now when it is known throughout all Paris." Aramis spoke deceptively lightly. People were too quick to look at Porthos with suspicion or derision as if he were a criminal. His brothers would do all they could to spare him greater pain.

"Not the whole of Paris," Porthos pointed out bitterly. "Just them bits with Vadim's sort in 'em".

"And with good reason," Athos spoke with quiet authority. The thought of Porthos manacled and in chains as he had been curled his stomach. "How many of those men find themselves incarcerated due to your loyal service to the King?"

"I suppose that leaves me," Aramis grimaced theatrically. "I hate getting locked up. The cells are always draughty. The food is terrible and the sanitation more dangerous than the company."

"I could do it." D'Artagnan spoke up.

Athos raised a brow at Aramis that clearly said _now see what you did_. They both knew that Armias was only posturing. He was the most experienced soldier of the three of them. He had experienced all manner of hardship on campaign and always done his duty. Not only had he endured Savoy but he had had to steel to come through the other side.

"Aramis mis-spoke. Being imprisoned is not to be taken lightly," Athos cast a reproving look at his brother, who had the grace to look a little sheepish, before he eyed the still eager looking Gascon sternly. "The food and conditions would be the least of your worries. Vadim is a highly dangerous man."

D'Artagnan squared his shoulders. He was determined not to be put off. This was the chance he had been waiting for to prove his worth. If he could do this then perhaps he could begin to gain Athos' respect.

"I can handle it." He insisted.


	5. Chapter 5

AN – Oh how I have wanted to write this! The foundation of Athos' and Porthos' friendship leading into Sleight of Hand. (Aramis and Athos will come later I promise!) Work still insane but two more weeks and I will be able to update more quickly, for now I am just doing what I can.

* * *

D'Artagnan thought he might just have made a terrible mistake.

In his defence he didn't _know _Treville was standing on the balcony, when he had made his impetuous decision. Nor that the Captain would be so quick to take him up on his offer. D'Artagnan wanted to believe it was because Treville thought he was the right man for the job. Although, in his heart of hearts he feared it was simply that the Captain had little choice. Athos had greeted Treville's decision with stiff disapproval. D'Artagnan had actually seen Aramis tread heavily on Athos' foot to stop him saying something to his superior officer that he would regret. Then he had all but propelled Athos to the other end of the courtyard, speaking urgently in his ear, as he strove to put some distance between the two men. D'Artagnan had half expected swordplay, but instead they began working on their hand to hand, trading holds and throws.

"Athos would have the upper hand if it were swords," Porthos read his mind. "Aramis would win if they chose muskets. This way Athos has the greater strength but Aramis has the longer reach, it makes 'em pretty equal."

Plus, when he got like this, his friends had learnt that Athos was grounded by their touch. The constant exchange of grips and close physical contact, coupled with Aramis' steady stream of words, even when caught in a loose headlock, was already visibly rounding out the stiff lines of Athos' shoulders and banishing some of the shadows from his eyes. Porthos smiled slightly at the sight.

"He's really angry I volunteered to do this, isn't he?" d'Artagnan sighed.

"You should take it as a compliment." Porthos advised, kindly.

"What? That he has so little faith in my abilities?" d'Artagnan scowled.

"That he cares about you, you dolt," Porthos corrected firmly. "Athos has a good heart but it's rare he takes to people like he has to you. It says something about you that he thinks you're worth fretting over."

"I thought this would be a chance to earn his respect," D'Artagnan sighed, his eyes relentlessly tracking Athos' movements. "But now he thinks I'm a fool who doesn't know when he's out of his depth. I'm just making things worse. How can I get him to see he can trust me?"

"You could stop trying so hard for a start," Porthos advised bluntly. "Real trust grows out of little things. Like you giving Athos' your mum's salve."

"He told you about that?" d'Artagnan looked pleased that his gesture had been well received. But as ever his youthful zeal was not satisfied. "But there must be something _more_ I can do. What about you? There must have been a moment, something when Athos stopped looking at you as just another musketeer and saw you as someone he could really count on?"

"Maybe," Porthos looked a little uncomfortable before he finally admitted. "Athos lost something of value to 'im, I just happened to find it, that's all."

Much as Porthos liked the boy he didn't know him well enough yet to share the detail of that particular episode. As much for what it revealed about his own past as for the invasion of Athos' privacy. The ambush had been carefully planned. They later discovered their movements had been betrayed by a spy in the Ambassador's entourage. At the time they knew only they were heavily outnumbered and had been swiftly defeated.

"Do nothing. Say nothing." Athos murmured.

Kneeling on the ground, with his hands bound behind him and a ring of mercenaries, with their swords drawn, encircling them, Porthos had bristled slightly at Athos' words. Every fibre of him rebelled at being at these men's mercy. But looking across at his Lieutenant he took faith in the aura of calm and authority the man was projecting. Porthos hadn't known Athos long and the man's obvious discomfort with casual intimacy had made it difficult to get close to him. At first Porthos had been wary of his noble bearing. But Athos had treated him with the same courtesy and respect as any other man in the regiment.

On one notable occasion, Porthos had decided to celebrate his comparative riches as newly commissioned musketeer to drink in a more upmarket tavern than he usually frequented. He still remembered the look on disdain on the young nobleman's face when he said "_Your sort aren't welcome here, boy." _Accused of ripping his musketeer's pauldron from a good man's corpse, Porthos had been ready for a fight, when Athos had unexpectedly emerged from the shadows in the corner to vouch for him,

"_As he said, this man is a King's musketeer and you owe him an apology." Athos' tone had been deadly. "Any man who judges others by appearances deserves to be judged in his turn."_

Porthos had listened with mounting admiration as Athos had, with scathing precision, pointed out how the nobleman's richly embroidered doublet deflected attention from his weak chin, how his breeches were cut to give the impression of rather more muscle in the calf than his indolent lifestyle actually allowed, and how his sword, albeit richly jewelled, was ill balanced and merely ornament, not fit to defend any man's honour, much to the growing amusement of the man's shallow circle of so called friends.

"_Need I go on?" Athos had raised a mocking brow,_

Utter fool that he was the young nobleman had challenged Athos to a duel for the insult. Not hiding his expression of disdain Athos had barely allowed him to unsheathe his sword before neatly disarming him, sending the blade arcing up into the air so that he could catch it in his left hand, even as he placed the point of his own sword under the man's chin.

"_Nice." Porthos had approved. _

"_I do my best," Athos' lips quirked slightly._

"_Please don't scar me," The man was already begging._

"_I wouldn't dream of it." Athos looked positively affronted._

"_Naw," Porthos agreed lazily. "Some nice girl might mistake a scar like that for an honourable wound earned in battle. We can't have that."_

"_I suggest his teeth," Athos looked calmly at Porthos. "There will be copious loss of blood but nothing life threatening and I dare say in future he will not be so keen to open his mouth for fear that his circle of admirers will recoiled from his unsightly features as they should have done from his poisoned words."_

"_My pleasure," Porthos had grinned tightly._

It was his trust in Athos which compelled him to hold fast as the hired mercenaries began to move along the line of five captives. Each musketeer was thoroughly searched, the mercenaries taking pleasure in meeting out a fist here and a boot there. Porthos winced in sympathy when the bundle of documents was found inside Athos' jacket and he was rewarded with a vicious backhand across the face that sent him sprawling, blood spraying from his nose. As he fought to right himself, his hands still tied behind his back a glint of silver caught the leader's eye.

"That's a right pretty piece," the man crowed. "Fetch a good price that will."

Still slightly dazed from the heavy blow Porthos could tell it took Athos a second to realise exactly what he meant. He saw the moment Athos' eyes widened as the chain around his neck was seized in one gloved hand and ripped from him so harshly that the links bit into his skin and beads of blood blossomed on his neck. Even so, Porthos doubted that it was that small injury which caused the look of fury on Athos' usually stoic features as the fine silver locket was held aloft.

"_No_!" Athos roared.

He surged to his feet, running at the man head down and butting him in the stomach, sending him flying, before using his boots to find the tender spots on the man's stomach and then ribs as his assailant curled into a ball. Following his lead, Porthos took down two more, almost enjoying the challenge of having to fight with both hands tied behind his back, before a harsh cry brought them both to a standstill.

"Stop, or your friends die!"

They turned to see the remaining three members of their company, each with one mercenary with a knife across their exposed throats and a second with a sword pointed at their hearts. Porthos exchanged a quick glance with Athos, but wasn't surprised when the other man swiftly shook his head. The odds were too great and there were simply too many opponents to risk their comrades' lives.

Slowly the man Athos had beaten rose to his feet, hatred burning in his eyes. Very deliberately he advanced, rolling up his sleeves and clenching his fists as he did so. Porthos felt his chest swell with love and respect as Athos had simply stood his ground looking the man in the eye without a trace of fear. Their Lieutenant knew exactly what was coming and was fully prepared to take this man's vicious retaliation himself rather than risk deflecting their captor's wrath onto any one of his men.

"Oi," Porthos heard himself shout. "I bet I could knock you down like a feather even with both hands tied behind my back. Try me we'll see what you can really do or are you too much of a coward to fight like a real man?"

His blood already up, the mercenary growled low in his throat at the insult, turning away from Athos and advancing menacingly on Porthos. Behind him Athos' expression looked predictably furious rather than grateful. But Porthos could live with the dressing down he would doubtless get later for needlessly putting himself in danger. Athos was already hurt, he wasn't about to let anyone touch him again. Not if it was in his power to prevent it.

"Carlos, we don't have time for this," One of the other mercenaries unexpectedly intervened. "We have what we came for. If the ship sails before we can deliver the documents not one of us'ill get paid."

The glowering looks of his companions was enough to cause the man to uncoil his fists and take a step back. Although, he wasn't above spitting in Porthos' face as he retreated. Unable to wipe it away, the musketeer stood rigid as the saliva slid down his face.

Once certain they were alone it was the work of moments for each of them to untie one another's bonds. As soon as he was free Athos turned on Porthos, his features uncharacteristically filled with utter fury.

"You should _not_ have done that. You put yourself at needless risk and for _nothing_?"

Porthos took a deep breathe, pushing aside his anger to focus on what was actually important here. Looking Athos in the eye he spoke with fierce determination.

"You _ain't_ nothin'. You was already hurt and I weren't about to let that git beat on a man I'd be proud to call friend when I could do _anything _to prevent it," When Athos looked utterly nonplussed at his words, Porthos softened his tone with a little humour. "Besides, we still need to get back what they took from us. You'd be no help in that if your brains were addled."

"The documents are safe." Athos assured them all.

"But he took them from you," Bernard protested. "We all saw."

"He took a bundle of correspondence of no consequence. With a few lies and mis-directions thrown in for good measure," Athos corrected as he reached down and pulled the real documents from inside his boot. "I hoped that once they believed they had found what they were looking for they would stop searching and so it proved."

"That' s bloody brilliant." Porthos beamed from ear to ear, as he clapped Athos on the shoulder. "You're a right marvel, you are."

Athos looked slightly abashed at such a fervent endorsement, two endearing pink spots of embarrassment appearing in his cheeks as he coughed awkwardly.

"It's every man's duty to do his best for the King and France. Now let us get the documents to the envoy before our mercenary friends realise they have been misled."

"What about your locket?" Porthos caught Athos' arm before he could mount.

"It is long lost." Athos would not meet his eyes. "Do not concern yourself."

"I can go after them while you carry onto Paris," Porthos was determined to repay the kindness this man had shown to him. "I could take it off his body as he slept and he'd never even know I'd been there."

"And if he woke and put a dagger in you?" Athos retorted more sharply than he intended. Taking a breath he visibly got his emotions under control in a show of sheer will power that Porthos both admired and pitied. "_No_, Porthos. Thank you for your concern but I will not risk your life for a .. mere trinket."

"Trinket, is it now?" Porthos challenged. Casting a look at the other musketeers he checked they were well out of ear shot before lowering his voice. "Athos, I've seen you with that locket. Now I ain't one to pry, but it's as clear as day it means the world to you. I might never have had much of anything as a kid. But I know what it's like to have something you value taken from you and I know how much that hurts. Let me do this."

"You are mistaken," Athos spoke with careful precision. "It is of no real consequence and certainly not worth risking your safety or well-being to retrieve it. Now, the King is expecting us to do our duty. That is all that matters."

Despite his fine words, it was obvious in the days that followed that Athos desperately mourned the locket's loss. He seemed even more melancholy than usual and eschewed the least part of company. More than once Porthos caught him putting his hand up to rub at his neck when he thought no one was looking. Watching his friend suffer it took longer than Porthos might have hoped. But eventually his own particular brand of patience paid off.

"I have something for you," He announced one morning as he arrived at the garrison, helping himself to the bottle of wine already open in front of Athos with a bright grin. "Something you've been missing."

"Oh?" Athos regarded him with mild curiosity.

He rather hoped Athos wouldn't ask how he had managed it. Nor think to look at the bruises knuckles hidden under his gloves, or connect his recent absences from numerous nights at the tavern with his ceaseless quest to ask questions in all the wrong places. Athos knew enough about his background to know what kind of connections he could call upon. And it wasn't exactly stealing if you were simply re-uniting an object with its rightful owner. Still none was any of it exactly conduct becoming a musketeer. He would rather for all their sakes that word of his recent activities did not reach Treville's ears.

Except that the question Athos actually asked wasn't anything like those he had been imagining.

"Why?" Athos managed so quietly Porthos almost missed it.

Porthos' heart almost broke at the look on Athos' face. He realised the other man had instantly realised the lengths he must have gone to in tracking down the locket. And that Athos was shocked, almost beyond words, that Porthos would do such a thing _for him._ Porthos thought about cataloguing all those occasions, either by personal example or at the point of a sword, that Athos had ensured Porthos was treated with respect. Except he realised that was simply the man Athos was and that he would see nothing extrondinary in his actions.

"Because it mattered to you," He spoke with simple kindness. "And you, my friend, matter a great deal to me."

"I am .. in your debt," Athos managed, his voice tight with emotion. He clasped Porthos' shoulder in a gesture of brotherhood, his eyes unashamedly damp. "More than you will ever know."

Porthos had never revealed that his curiosity had overcome him. Having secured the locket his desire to respect Athos' privacy had warred with his instinct to do whatever he could to protect someone he had come to care about and who seemed to have such little sense of his own worth. His instinct told him that whatever secrets this locket contained it had the power to break Athos. And he was not about to let that happen if it was in his power to prevent it. He had expected the portrait of a women the simple pressed flower inside, a forget-me-not as he discovered later, both surprised and confused him. How could he protect Athos from a threat he did not understand? Still that had not stopped him from being vigilant and ready. Athos was his brother now and anyone who wanted to harm him would have to get through Porthos first.

And he would make sure that was _far_ from easy.

"So, what can _I_ do to get in Athos good graces?" d'Artagnan demanded.

The boy's words brought Porthos sharply back to the present, where Athos was now grinning fondly at Aramis, who wrapped him in a warm embrace, the pair of them covered in mud and their hair sticking up at all angles.

"You do what Treville instructed, find out what Vadim plans to do, make 'im believe that you feel bitter and betrayed, willing to risk everything to get revenge on the government that would see you hang for defending your honour," Porthos paused. "And leave Athos to us."


	6. Chapter 6

AN – Oh my goodness, did I mention this was going to be an epic? So, we edge a little further through "Sleight of Hand" and introduce Athos and Aramis' back story. But that rather grew and I wanted to do it justice, so please bear with me. This chapter is already super long! Work still manic but I will have the next part up as soon as I can.

* * *

In spite of himself Athos found himself waiting for d'Artagnan to descend from Treville's office. Despite his own misgivings about the whole enterprise d'Artagnan was about to put his life in significant danger in the service of the king. He would be remiss if he did not offer the benefit of his experience to give him the best possible chance of success.

"Athos," d'Artagnan nodded at him politely, but made to pass by him as if his business lay elsewhere.

"I was wondering if you wished to spar," Athos offered.

He supposed he couldn't blame the boy for the way his words stopped him in his tracks. He knew that Aramis and Porthos had both been generous with their time in practising with him, part in sport and part to report to Treville about his progress. But since their impromptu duel Athos had scrupulously avoided any reason to cross swords with him, always deferring to the musketeers Treville had entrusted with overseeing the boy's training.

"Thank you, but I don't wish to impose," d'Artagnan was politeness itself. "I wouldn't want to take you from more important duties."

Athos supposed he deserved that. In matter of fact he wasn't even certain the boy meant it as any kind of rebuke. That the Gascon might genuinely think that Athos had better things to do was more wounding than any insult. He wanted to assure d'Artagnan that his welfare was of paramount importance to him. But he feared the words would sound hollow when the manner in which he had been treating the boy had given the boy so little proof of his true feelings.

"Your opponent does not know that the duel is a ruse, he _will_ be trying to kill you." He reminded instead.

"Porthos taught me a few moves," d'Artagnan surprised him. "Besides, I only have to stay alive long enough for the Red Guards to intervene and Constance made sure to complain loudly enough about the foolishness of men settling their differences in a duel in front of Captain Trudeau and his men that they will probably be lying in wait."

"There are certain intelligences about Vadim which we have gathered which might be useful to you," Athos tried again. "It would best be discussed over a good dinner. The food in the Chatelet leaves a great deal to be desired."

"Thank you for your concern," d'Artagnan gave him a warm smile. "But Treville already shared everything he knows of Vadim and Aramis was kind enough to ensure, as he put it, that the condemned man ate a hearty meal."

"I see." Athos managed.

It seemed that his friends had unwittingly put him to shame. Even Madame Bonacieux had been more instrumental in securing the success of their present enterprise then he had managed thus far. Whilst Athos still hoped to persuade d'Artagnan of the folly of his choice it sat ill with him that he had not done everything he could to prepare him.

"There was one thing," d'Artagnan's slightly hesitant voice surprised him. "I was wondering what to expect? In prison, I mean?"

Athos gave the boy a sharp look but his face showed no fear, just honest curiosity and a hint of uncertainty, which was forgivable in the circumstances. D'Artagnan deserved to know what he was about to face.

"It is uncomfortable," Athos admitted with habitable understatement. "The cells are cold and the light is poor, the floors bare earth with little more than a scattering of straw. The food is only fit to tempt those who cannot remember their last meal. The water is brackish and best taken sparingly. But none of that will be your primary concern."

"Vadim?" d'Artagnan asked astutely.

"Indeed," Athos agreed. "Treville will ensure you are placed with him alone rather than amidst the general population. But the guards will not be told of your true purpose so you will be shackled like any other prisoner. The bonds are heavy and cumbersome. It makes defending yourself harder than you might imagine."

"I understand," The image of Athos his torso marked with deep, vivid, bruises and his wrists rubbed red raw with unthinking callousness, rose in his mind. "I'll try not to attract too much attention."

"The guards that bothered me have been assigned to other duties," Athos spoke kindly as he easily read from his expression where d'Artagnan's thoughts had led. "Treville saw to that, personally. Hopefully, those that remain will learn by their fellows fate and not be quite as quick to abuse their power."

"That's good to know," d'Artagnan smiled at him, as he prepared to take his leave. "Thank you, for your time."

"The noise is quite relentless," Athos said suddenly. "If it is not the coming and going of the guards, or the chains of the inmates, it is sound of desperate men. Their cries can be .. quite distressing."

D'Artagnan's expression softened at this new evidence of Athos' depth of feeling. He looked at the man with shining respect. That a soldier, who had no reason to view the occupants of the Chatelet with anything but utter disdain, could still find it in his heart to feel compassion for their suffering seemed to him the epitome of true nobility. Not for the first time he wondered how a man of such obvious education and breeding had found his way to become to musketeer.

"I can see that would be hard," d'Artagnan nodded gravely. "I'll try to prepare myself."

Athos inclined his head in acceptance of that. He was pleased the boy was treating the mission with the seriousness it deserved. Realising there was something else he _could _do Athos reached down into his boot and pulled out a dagger. It was small enough to be easily concealed and would be missed in any cursory search. Yet the blade was a thin point of viciousness that could do significant damage at close quarters. Assuming d'Artagnan could get a hand to it, it might just give the boy an advantage if he found himself in danger.

"Take this."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened as he saw what Athos was offering. As well as being an effective weapon it was also a beautifully crafted piece, a gift from Aramis in the early days of their friendship, after Athos himself had had a _very _narrow escape after being captured. Seeing the way the Gascon's eyes grew damp as he thanked him, Athos realised with a pang just how much the boy relied on his good opinion. As d'Artagnan took his leave Athos felt the weight of a familiar hand settling approvingly on his shoulder. He did not need to look around to know it was Aramis.

"You're a good man, Athos."

"He's still not ready for this." Athos sighed.

"He volunteered."

"He's just lost his father, he's not thinking straight and he has no idea what he's letting himself in for," Athos ruthlessly pushed the image of honest, eager Thomas, to the back of his mind. "One of us should have done it. If d'Artagnan fails, their majesties will still be at risk and the boy will have died for _nothing_."

Aramis gripped the shoulder between his hand a little tighter in silent reassurance. He sincerely hoped Treville had not misjudged this. For all his bravery d'Artagnan _was_ still something of an unknown quantity. If things ended badly Athos would take it hard indeed. And the news which came from the Chatelet overnight did nothing to soothe his concerns.

"It seems the guard on duty identified d'Artagnan to Vadim as a musketeer," Treville ran a hand across his face.

"_What_?" Athos' expression threatened dire retribution.

"As I understand it d'Artagnan complained about finding a mouse in his dinner, the guard lost his temper and proclaimed that the musketeer could starve for all he cared."

"So, all our efforts to slip d'Artagnan in as an ingénue are come to nothing?" Aramis summarised.

"Sounds about right," Porthos scowled.

"It may not be so bad," Treville corrected. "Apparently d'Artagnan was able to convince Vadim that the musketeers had betrayed him. He turned the situation to his advance and persuaded Vadim that they both had something in common Vadim having been incarcerated because the man he trusted to watch his back fell asleep."

"Clever," Porthos observed. "It might even work."

"And it might get him killed." Athos intoned darkly.

"The Queen leaves for the Chatelet shortly," The Captain met his Lieutenant's gaze squarely. "We'll know more when you've had a chance to speak with him."

The prison break out was unexpected to say the least. And d'Artagnan's rash actions in joining forces with Vadim meant that Treville had no answer when Athos asked him if he still thought the Gascon was the right man for the job. The Cardinal's complete disregard for d'Artagnan's welfare only raised the stakes. Athos back to the Garrison in tight lipped fury and then stalked off without waiting to be dismissed. Treville let him go, feeling the weight of command settling just a little heavier on his shoulders.

"I've already put the word out," Porthos was quick to reassure when Athos told them of the Cardinal's words. "Soon as anyone sees 'im or Vadim, we'll know."

"The boy has proved remarkably inventive so far," Aramis observed. "I wouldn't put it past him to find some way to contact us."

"He's a brave one, that's for sure," Porthos nudged a brooding Athos. "Did you see how he kept his cool when Vadim was threaten' to off the Queen?"

"Your point, gentlemen?" Athos glowered at them.

Most people would have the good sense to leave him alone when he was in this mood, but he knew his brothers well enough to know they weren't about to let this drop until they had imparted whatever wisdom they felt impelled to share with him.

"That boy was born to be a musketeer and he has a much better chance of surviving to achieve that destiny with your help than without it," Aramis met Athos' gaze meaningfully. "We both know what it is to find comfort in a soldier's duty when there seems nothing else. Would you deny him that?"

Athos had the grace to look away. He would always be grateful to Treville for pressing him to join the regiment when his life did not seem worth living. He had come to soldiering with the benefit of a rigorous education in the art of war and an older head on his shoulders, but equally reeling from grief and loss.

"I am hardly the most suitable role model for an impressionable youth." He managed.

"The boy has clearly decided differently," Aramis stepped up so he was face to face with Athos and laid a single hand on his cheek. "And, need I remind you my friend that you do not get to decide whether or not you are loved."

Athos closed his eyes briefly at those words, even as he reached up and covered Aramis' hand with his own, the warmth of that joined touch taking them both back to an earlier time and place. They had been taken captive some hours earlier but the men who had overpowered them had said nothing and answered no questions as they stripped them of their weapons, then locking them into a stall in an abandoned kennels. Aramis had never borne captivity especially well, so even after they had painstakingly established that there was no way to effect an escape, he continued to pace, keeping up a liturgy of meaningless comment to keep his anxiety at bay. Of his three companions, Renard began a fruitless attempt to loosen the iron bars on the small window, LeBrun pulled the rosary from around his neck and began to pray, his lips moving silently, Athos simply settled himself back against the wall and waited, only rising to his feet as the bolts on the door were drawn back and a man entered, his eyes cold and calculating.

From the first Aramis' stomach had clenched unpleasantly at the way Henri DuPont had looked at Athos as the musketeer had drawn himself up and met their captor's gaze with cool disdain, despite having his own musket held to his head. It came as an unpleasant surprise to realise that the man was no criminal, but a minor noble who ruled his lands like a despot. So intoxicated was he by his own power in this small corner so far from Paris that even the sight of the musketeers pauldrons left him unmoved.

"You have the speech and manner of a man of breeding. How is it that you find yourself serving the King as a mere solider?" DuPont challenged Athos.

"The King's musketeers are the finest soldiers in France," Athos evaded his question. "I would advise you to let us go before we are forced to prove that."

His reward was a fist to the stomach which bent him forward as it forced all the air from his lungs. But Athos never broke eye contact, holding DuPont's gaze even as he carefully straightened.

"You will answer my question." DuPont insisted.

Aramis felt his blood run cold. Athos _never_ spoke of his past. Despite their months of service together Aramis had no idea if he had parents still living, if he had ever been married, not even which region of the country he came from. All he knew came from Athos' tortured nightmares. That there was a woman he had loved and a brother who had died. There was no chance Athos would share any part of his history with their captor. And there was something about DuPont's tone which had raised all the hairs on the back of Aramis' neck.

"There is nothing to tell," Athos appeared unmoved, but Aramis at least knew better than to take _that_ at face value. Despite his inscrutable façade Athos had proved to be remarkably perceptive. "If its money you wish our weapons will fetch a good price. But you should know that our movements were well known. If we do not return safely our Captain will come looking. He is most determined man and he has the King's ear."

"I asked you a question," DuPont's expression darkened. A nod to the men beside him and one kicked Athos' legs out from under him so his knees hit the stone floor with a sickening force and another gripped his hair and forced his head back painfully. DuPont stepped in so he could look down on him. "And when I ask you a question, you _will_ answer me. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly well, thank you."

Despite his predicament, Athos still managed to sound as if he was exchanging small talk with the ladies of the court. Aramis really rather admired that, although, he made a mental note to remind Athos of all the times the man had chided _him _for provoking their enemies without due cause. DuPont was unlikely to overlook the fact that Athos still had not answered his question. Even so, Aramis was not prepared for what happened next.

"Maybe his Lordship here wouldn't be so tight lipped if we lean on one of his mates," One of the henchmen suggested. "The sight of blood usually gets 'em talking."

"No," DuPont surprised them all and Aramis felt his fear grow. This was a man more inclined to madness than mercy. Whatever was coming he suspected it would be bad. And so it proved. "I do not wish him to be coerced. There would be no satisfaction in such an empty victory. Bring him."

Aramis felt a shock of fear and surprise run through him as two of the henchmen hauled Athos to his feet and began to all but drag him out of the room before he could so much as look in their direction. He surged forward, only to be met with a musket to the face and a vicious kick to his knee cap. And in the next instant the men and Athos were gone. Aramis vented his frustration in a few moments of ineffective shouting which did nothing to make him feel better or secure Athos' safe return. Then he did the only thing he could. He settled down to wait. It was little comfort that he could not hear any sounds of suffering. He knew Athos was the stoic type. In the months they had served together he had seen the man suffer all manner of pain and discomfort with little more than a raised eyebrow.

Athos had already been a far better friend than Aramis truly deserved. He had always been a little too wild to be entirely comfortable with authority. After Savoy he had become positively reckless. When Treville had placed the two of them together he'd wondered if the Captain had taken leave of his senses. But Athos' steady presence had been oddly calming. The man had rightly given him hell when he had risked his life or others. But then he had steadfastly placed himself between Aramis and Treville's wrath, even for the most suicidal of errors. Like an untamed colt being gentled with a knowing hand Aramis had gradually begun to trust in Athos. And then there was that night at the Inn.

_The mission had been a simple errand, more an excuse for Treville to push them together than any real need for their talents with sword or musket. Unfortunately their destination was a full two days ride from Paris and the thin coating of snow on the ground made Aramis's skin prickle with memories of Savoy. He was so ridiculously grateful when they stopped for the night that he missed the flicker of unease that crossed Athos' face at the sight of the small, sparsely furnished room, with its one narrow bed._

_He would know better now._

_Aramis immediately set about removing his weapons and stripping down to his shirt and braies. The night was cold enough that his breath was visible in front of his face and the small fire in the grate was doing little to combat the fierce chill in the room, after a quick splash in cold water to remove the worst of the dirt from the day he hopped under the blankets. Only then did he realise that Athos had sat himself in the only chair and was drinking steadily from the half full bottle he had brought up from the tap room._

"_Aren't you coming to bed?" He asked._

"_Momentarily," Athos allowed, as he took another drink. "Do not let me detain you."_

_Aramis paused, his keen mind sure there was _something _he was missing. But he was also tired and cold and not comfortable enough with his own memories right now to risk probing anyone else's tonight. Settling down with a sigh as the warmth from the blankets began to seep into his body he gave into his exhaustion and succumbed to sleep._

"_Aramis!" A voice called from far off. "Aramis!"_

_In his mind's eye he was in the forest in Savoy. He saw his brothers dying all around him. He heard their cries of pain. He felt hands reaching for him and he fought them with everything he had, knowing it was hopeless but still feeling a small surge of satisfaction when he managed to elicit a pain filled grunt from his assailant. _

"_René__ Aramis __d'Herblay!"_

_Somewhere in the back of his mind Aramis finally recognised the voice as meaning safety. His confused brain first supplied a name to go with it, Athos. Then it realised that he was not lying on the cold, hard, ground, but a stiff, straw, mattress. After that it was a simple matter to realise that he was actually awake now and he should probably open his eyes. Except that the way that he could feel the gentle rise and fall of Athos' chest at his back, feel his arms wrapped securely around his torso and hear his voice talking steadily in his ear as he tried to bring him back to himself made that just a _little _awkward. _

"_Aramis?" Athos' voice sharpened._

"_Yes," Aramis tried to pull away and straighten up, but to his surprise Athos held fast, even tightening his arms fractionally. "My apologies, it was just a dream. I am sorry I disturbed you."_

"_The snow made you uncomfortable." Athos surprised him with his insight._

"_Yes." Aramis saw no point in denying it. "It was Savoy. I was dreaming of Savoy."_

"_Here," Athos uncurled one arm to reach across and pick up the bottle of wine. Part of Aramis' mind noted that it was two thirds full. Not the _same_ bottle then. "Take a little. It will help."_

_Feeling absurdly grateful for the understanding tone it was only as he drank that Aramis registered the bone deep chill coming from Athos and the fact that the man was still fully dressed, even though the candle was now almost burned out. Not to mention that they were presently drinking at least his second bottle of wine. _

"_You weren't sleeping." He realised._

"_No," Athos shifted slightly behind him. "I don't generally sleep well."_

_Aramis felt a sharp pang of emotion pierce his chest at the tone of loss in those words. Instinctively he turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of Athos' expression. The man's features were largely in shadow, but Aramis could clearly see the dark bruise blossoming on his jaw. Sucking in a sharp breath of remorse, he wordlessly covered the hand Athos was resting lightly on his thigh with his own, in silent apology._

"_Go back to sleep," Athos told him fondly, his other hand sliding through Aramis' curls in a gentle caress, like an elder brother soothing his younger sibling. "I shall not leave you."_

_Aramis felt a lump in his throat so large he could hardly draw breathe, tears stinging his eyes as Athos reached into his soul and so effortlessly identified his greatest fear and so effectively banished it. Linking their fingers together Aramis suppressed his own smile as he felt his body warmth leeching into Athos. Entwined together his last thought before he succumbed to sleep was how grateful he was that he had fallen in with this man and that just perhaps they could help each other. _

It was two hours before Athos was returned.


	7. Chapter 7

AN – So sorry for the long delay. It was quite unintentional. In compensation it is the longest chapter I have ever written, just a reminder that we are still in flashback territory, in the early months of Athos and Aramis' relationship. More notes at the end.

When the door finally opened Aramis surged to his feet, anxious for his first glimpse of Athos. To his irritation his view was initially blocked by a trio of henchmen and when DuPont was finally revealed in the doorway he was quite alone. Aramis clenched his fists so tightly he could feel his nails biting into his skin. If Athos was dead DuPont was going to suffer.

"Gentlemen, I do hope my men have treated you well?" DuPont greeted them as cordially as if they were suddenly honoured guests at his table, rather than men who had been held prisoner in his abandoned dog kennels for the last few hours. "Rest assured that anyone who has shown you the least discourtesy will be severely punished. Please let me show you to accommodations more suited to your rank and status as an escort of King's musketeers."

"Has he completely lost his reason?" LeBrun murmured.

"Who cares if it means we can get out of this stinking hole?" Renard retorted, as he moved to follow.

"Did he just say an "escort" of musketeers?" Aramis had a very bad feeling about this. He knew most people saw Athos as the sensible, dependable sort, a man all about honour and duty. His skill with a sword was justly famed. But it was his unorthodox brilliance as a tactician which so often left their enemies reeling. Aramis had learned _never_ to underestimate what Athos might be prepared to do in order to accomplish a mission. "Well, I'm sure _this_ won't end badly."

"You don't think Athos ..?" LeBrun trailed off, looking worried.

"Honestly?" Aramis sighed. "I have no idea."

They were led towards the main house, glancing between themselves as they took in the broken windows in the stable block, the weeds growing up through the courtyard, the crumbling stone steps and patches of fallen plaster on the walls. As they entered the mansion and were conducted up flight after flight of stairs Aramis was automatically cataloguing the positions of the guards and potential escape routes. He glimpsed one room with its elaborately carved four poster that was obviously DuPont's own bedchamber. Aramis sniffed, he always believed any man who had to surround himself with _that _much ostentation was clearly compensating for something. At last they were shown into a shabby, but well-appointed, room up in the eaves with two small dormer windows. From the pictures on the wall it had clearly once been a nurse or governess' sitting room, there was a fire burning in the grate, a side table already laid with wine, cheese and breads, a pot of stew simmering over the fire, and a scattering of comfortable furniture.

"Do you think it's a trap?" Renard looked anxious. "Maybe the food is poisoned?"

"There are two guards on the only door, with two muskets apiece and a fall from the window would certainly kill you," LeBrun pointed out, despite the more salubrious surroundings they were clearly still prisoners. "I think if DuPont wished us dead there are simpler ways of accomplishing it."

"But just in case we'll let you eat first." Aramis grinned at him.

"There are things we could use as weapons," Renard pointed out eagerly. "We could throw the burning stew at the guards, or break the bottles and use the shards of glass to cut their throats. Or .."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Aramis raised a brow.

"There are always more guards?" Renard hazarded. "One of us might die in the attempt? The whole enterprise is futile if we can't find weapons and horses? DuPont has Athos at his mercy? We don't even know if Athos is still on the property?" He made a face. "All of the above? Perhaps, I didn't quite think it through."

"They're not bad ideas," Aarmis patted his shoulder consolingly. "Maybe later."

"Lord help us, I hadn't even thought of that last one." LeBrun murmured.

Aramis hadn't either. The thought that DuPont might have taken Athos elsewhere chilled him to the bone. Still he wasn't going to worry about it until he had no choice.

"Good thing Athos isn't here," He forced himself to sound cheerful as he checked the label on one of the two bottles of red. "There wouldn't be a hope of any wine for the rest of us if he was."

They ate enough to keep their strength up, tried to get a little rest and resolutely did not talk about where Athos might be or what might be happening to him. After the trials of the day Renard swiftly fell asleep sprawled bonelessly across one of the couches and LeBrun was soon snoring quietly in one of the armchairs. Aramis alone maintained his vigil, his eyes fixed on the door.

The figure that eventually appeared bore little resemblance to the man that had been taken from them two hours previously. Flanked by two henchmen, Athos stood as straight and tall as if on parade, his usual inscrutable expression giving nothing away. But to Aramis' astonishment he was dressed in a richly embroidered doublet teamed with a lace trimmed concoction of a shirt, a pair of black breeches and he now wore soft velvet gloves. Most strikingly his face had been dusted with chalk power and his colour heightened with a touch of Spanish paper after the manner of the court.

"In you go, yer Lordship."

One of the henchmen pushed Athos _hard_ on the shoulder, causing him to stumble forward and land heavily on his hands and knees. For a heartbeat Athos did not move, his head hung low and his arms trembling with the effort of supporting his own body. But as the door slammed shut behind him he began to slowly lever himself to his feet.

"_Athos_."

Aramis rushed forward intent on taking his arm to help, only to have his hand shaken off with a pointed glare.

"I can manage, thank you."

Aramis blinked, the words were stiff with formality, as if he was a servant who had overstepped his bounds. Regrouping he went to the table and poured a glass of wine and brought it back to where Athos had perched on the edge of the couch, feet on the floor and back so straight it put Aramis in mind of his sisters' deportment lessons. Perhaps it was the clothes. In different circumstances Aramis might have been amused by the notion that Athos' habitual slouching was an act of deliberate rebellion against the manners learnt in his own childhood.

"Here," He offered the glass.

To his astonishment Athos barely glanced at it, or him.

"Thank you, but no."

"Athos, you've been gone for hours," Never let it be said that Aramis was easily rebuffed, even as he set the wine aside. "At least take a few bites of food. There's a particularly good Brie I think you'd enjoy?"

Athos shot him a slightly surprised look which clearly said he had not expected the other man to remember his favourite cheese. Aramis rolled his eyes. This was the man who would march through a Parisian brothel without blinking and haul him out by the scruff of the neck because he had overslept and then lie to Trevillle about the reason for their tardiness, but any small overtures of friendship on Aramis' part were greeted with mild astonishment. Remembering how he had felt when he thought Athos dead, Aramis sat down beside him and gripped his shoulder fiercely.

"Your company was sorely missed, my friend." He vowed.

With a distinctly pained look Athos pointedly moved out from under his grip and shifted until there was clear distance between them. Aramis felt as if he had been struck. Athos' dislike of casual physical intimacy was well known but he and Porthos had become very much the exception to that rule, the two of them engaging in friendly completion to encourage that little quirk of his lips that was Athos for smiling or the way his eyes softened when he was particularly pleased by something. Aramis' stricken look must have stirred Athos' conscience somewhat because he cleared his throat awkwardly.

"I fear DuPont wouldn't agree, he found my company somewhat lacking. Although to be fair I also found him to be a less than genial host."

"You would say, if he hurt you?" Aramis enquired carefully.

"Of course." Athos' bland response discouraged any further discourse on that matter.

"So, does your present attire have something to do with DuPont's new found hospitality?" Aramis tried to keep his tone light. Seeing Athos without his pauldron was unsettling. He vividly remembered the day his friend had received his commission. He could not imagine he would have surrendered it easily. "Or is this new fashion simply the whim of a man teetering on the edge of madness?"

Athos suddenly looked a little shamefaced, as if he had actually forgotten what he was wearing, Aramis found that oddly endearing. In truth he could not imagine a man less suited to the pomp and frippery of court fashion than Athos.

"DuPont hopes for a ransom," Athos sighed. "This estate is not in good repair and the costs of maintaining such a retinue and furnishing so many men with weapons would be a heavy burden on any man's coffers. He is lured by the prospect of easy riches."

"Treville is a fine Captain but he is first and foremost a solider of the Crown. To give in to Dupont's demands would put a price on the head of every man in the regiment. We would all be targets for kidnap and ransom each time we left the Garrison." Aramis worried.

"Indeed," Athos agreed. "But DuPont has no interest in lowly musketeers. He is obsessed with the idea that I have the wealth and status to oblige him."

"_Do _you have anyone who would meet a ransom demand for you?" Aramis asked carefully.

"None living." Athos said dryly.

"Ah," Aramis made a face. "So, unless DuPont is content to be paid in barrels of honey brandy, this is going to get interesting."

"I have told him that I will pay. It is merely a convenient ruse to ensure news of his activities reaches Treville's ears. I have no intention of actually meeting his demands," Athos paused. Almost in spite of himself he raised a curious brow. "Honey brandy?"

"My father's only legacy," Aramis explained. "He produced it. We were always comfortable but I have a large number of sisters. All of his money went on securing their dowries. It was always expected that I would make my own way in the world."

"Many would envy you that freedom. I always wanted to be a soldier but my father would not hear of it," Athos sighed.

"Really?" Aramis perked up. That was a story he would love to hear, Athos as a rebellious youngster. Somehow he had never imagined Athos as anything but dutifully obedient as a child. Although, the way he was frequently prepared to try Treville's patience did rather suggest otherwise. "Do tell?"

Athos seemed not to have heard him, abruptly he stood up and crossed to the table, picking up one of the bottles of wine and gulping down almost half in one go, inexplicably grimacing as if it was vinegar rather than a good burgundy. The opportunity for fond reminisces was past and he was all business again.

"DuPont's men's loyalty sensibly does not extend to placing themselves in musketeer hands. Therefore he has agreed that the three of you should return to Paris under the guise of delivering the ransom note. The road between here and Paris is long and dangerous and he does not want to risk one or two of you being overtaken by bandits before his demands can be met. Appraise Treville of DuPont's activities and await his orders. Given DuPont's status no doubt he will have to consult with the King."

"_That's_ your plan?" Aramis was on his feet and crossing over to the table to confront Athos before he had even thought about it. "That we just leave you here?"

"DuPont must be stopped," Athos would not look at him. "He has clearly been terrorising the people of this district for some time. Treville will convince the King that his atrocities cannot stand. As long as he has hopes of riches I will be quite safe until you return."

"You don't know that," Aramis' voice was dangerously calm. "The man is clearly unstable. It will take days to reach Paris and even longer to return with a full company of men. Not to mention how long it could take for the King to agree to DuPont's arrest."

"Nonetheless," Infuriatingly Athos stood with his back turned, as if Aramis' concerns were beneath his notice. "You have your orders."

"Orders be dammed," Determined to make his point Aramis spun Athos around, seizing him by the lapels of his doublet as he shook him firmly before pressing him up against the wall. "This plan is _suicide. _What am I supposed to tell Porthos? Have you not realised that he loves you like a brother? Would you repay that loyalty by causing him to weep at your funeral? And you taught me to trust again when I thought I could not after Savoy. What kind of brother would you be to turn your back on me now?"

"I am not fit to be any man's brother!" Athos retorted hotly. "My brother put all his trust in me and he died because of it. I will not allow that to happen to you!"

"And I am not Marsec to abandon you here and leave you to die!" Aramis retorted.

"Aramis, stop this!" LeBrun was suddenly beside him, his tone sharp with disapproval, Renard hovering at his shoulder ready to intervene. "You're hurting him."

Aramis blinked. Athos had indeed gone as white as a sheet, sweat standing out in beads of pain on his forehead and actual tears in his eyes. Aramis felt his blood run cold. DuPont clearly had hurt him and badly too, and Aramis had not only been blind to his injuries, he had now added to his pain. Utterly mortified, Aramis could not even meet Athos' eyes as he turned away. Pacing frantically he ran his hands through his hair as he issued his instructions to LeBrun.

"Any open wounds will need to be washed out with wine. His ribs may need binding. I have needle and thread if anything is deep enough to require it."

"Do you always carry needle and thread about your person?" Renard's voice asked curiously.

"And salve," Aramis nodded distractedly. "Each item is small enough to evade all but the most rigorous of searches and a stitch in time has saved many a life."

"And what should I do for burns?" LeBrun enquired.

"_Burns?"_

Aramis spun around to see that LeBrun had guided Athos to straddle a plain wooden chair. The velvet gloves had been removed to reveal three broken fingers and two missing nails. No wonder Athos had struggled to hold either wine glass or bottle. Renard had been pressed into service to carefully wipe the paint from Athos' face, revealing the stark pallor of total exhaustion below. The two spots of fever explained why he had been so reluctant to let Aramis touch him. LeBrun had also removed his shirt and doublet and Aramis' eyes widened as he saw, not the welts of a beating as he had expected, but back and shoulders littered with burns, red and blistered circles and trails of molten liquid, a precise deliberate cruelty, the product of a truly evil mind.

"DuPoint was minded to send only one of us to Paris, wasn't he?" He realised quietly. "You held out and refused to agree to pay him anything until you had secured the release of all three of us."

"I am your leader. It is my duty and my privilege to protect those under my command by any means possible."

Aramis pressed his lips together tightly. He wondered exactly what Athos had been prepared to reveal in order to spare their lives. He was certainly astute enough to have told DuPont a convenient lie. But he was also sufficiently honourable to have chosen to give proof of his actual identity in order to be certain of their freedom.

"Although," Athos gave him a rueful look. "If you could kindly forebear from mentioning when you report to Treville that it required me to have my face painted like a dowager Duchess I would be obliged."

"_That's _the part that concerns you?"

Suddenly unable to speak Aramis clumsily wrapped his arms around Athos' head and embraced it fiercely against his chest, dropping a firm kiss on his curls.

"You are a most remarkable man."

With a nod of thanks to LeBrun he swiftly moved between Athos and the table collecting wine and napkins, apologising for his rash actions with each soothing touch as he carefully splinted the broken fingers by binding them to their neighbours, washed out the raw wounds left by missing nails with wine before gently covering them, then used his long elegant fingers to smooth cooling salve in small, careful, circles, across each of the _thirty six _separate burns on Athos' back. When he was finally done Athos stood up carefully and reached out a shaking hand to put the shirt forced upon him by DuPont back on.

"No," Aramis' hand gently closed over his wrist. "Take mine."

Athos stood stock still as Aramis shrugged out of his jacket and pulled his own shirt over his head. Swiftly concertinaing it in his hands, he slipped the neck hole over Athos' head and helped him place one arm and then the other in the billowing sleeves, before drawing it carefully down his abused back. Athos tipped his head back slightly, taking a shuddering breath as the soft linen, with its scents of spice and safety, still warm from Aramis' body, made him feel like someone truly valued for the first time since Thomas had died.

"Can you manage a few mouthfuls of stew?" Aramis asked kindly.

Athos was largely unmoved by the prospect of further scars on his back. But Aramis could see the relief in his eyes when he assured him that, once properly healed, his hands would be perfectly fit to wield a sword with his usual precision. But for now the damage was a serious hindrance. They tried with Athos attempting to balance the spoon across his palm, then cupping the bowl between his hands. In the end Aramis simply took over bowl and spoon and distracted him with a story about his first meeting with Porthos as he encouraged him to eat. Athos managed about half a bowl before exhaustion over took him.

"Ar'mis?"

The slightly slurred call stopped Aramis rather guiltily in his tracks. Having settled Athos on the couch he had assumed he was already asleep.

"Er, yes?"

"Your word, if you please, that you _will_ return to Paris in the morning?"

Aramis didn't hesitate. After what Athos had suffered for all their sakes there really was only one answer he could give. He nodded once.

"Of course."

"And Aramis?" One baleful eye regarded him steadily. "Do _not_ do anything reckless."

"Athos," Aramis rolled his eyes. "Please."

The thin dawn light was streaming through the windows when Athos awoke. He had slept far better than he could have imagined. It was no doubt merely a measure of his exhaustion and nothing to do with the sense of security provided by Aramis' cosseting.

"Good morning," Aramis' voice greeted him, sounding overly cheerful. "And what a beautiful morning it is."

Athos turned his head to see Aramis lounging in the armchair beside him, sporting a clean shirt, inspecting what appeared to be a newly acquired arquebus, and wearing an extremely self-satisfied expression. Looking around he realised that the two of them were alone on the room.

"What's going on?" Athos sat up a little faster than was truly wise, resolutely ignoring the flare of pain across his back. "Where are the others?"

"They've gone down to the stables to saddle the horses. We'll be leaving for Paris as soon as everything is ready," Aramis explained blithely. "Oh, and did I mention that DuPont is dead?"

"Aramis," Athos drew out his name in that way that either meant he was extremely impressed or absolutely furious. "What _exactly_ did you do?"

"Have you ever noticed when people are guarding a building how infrequently they think to look up?"

It had been a tight squeeze to fit through the narrow dormer window. And scrambling across the roof and between the leads had been a _little _daunting, but the rope that they had fashioned from the curtain cords and drapes held fast to land him on a convenient balcony. Moving silent as a ghost it had been a simple matter break in through the window and make his way back to DuPont's bedchamber. Silencing the guard on his door by knocking him senseless, he had relieved him of his weapons and pressed a knife to DuPont's throat before he woke him.

"Do you make a habit of escaping out of windows?" Athos enquired mildly. "I merely ask to satisfy my curiosity?"

"It wasn't my first time." Aramis admitted modestly.

He chose not to tell Athos how he had lounged against the bedpost knife in one hand and musket in the other, whilst DuPont lay bound and helpless, ruminating on how exactly he was going to kill him and just how much it might hurt. He had deliberately drawn the moment out, wanting DuPont to feel a little of the agony his had inflicted on his friend. Nor did he mention any of the things DuPont had insinuated about Athos, his character or his lineage. It had taken all of his will power not to give the man a slow, agonising death by shooting him in the stomach, only the certain knowledge that a shot would raise the alarm more quickly than he could return to Athos to ensure he was safe, stayed his hand. Even as he slit his throat he felt it was a mercy DuPont did not deserve.

"And what happened after you had killed him?" Athos could not quite believe he had slept through all of this.

"Once Dupont was dead his men showed their true loyalty by ransacking his property of whatever they could carry and heading for the hills. We pretty much have the place to ourselves."

"They left us some breakfast I see." Athos observed.

Aramis grinned broadly. He knew there was a reason he loved this man so fiercely.

"You might want to get dressed first. Our saddle bags are in the corner and I found these."

Athos' expression when Aramis produced his own weapons, boots, breeches, jacket and even his hat was as vulnerable as Aramis had ever seen him. Not trusting himself to speak Athos merely nodded his thanks, as he slowly began to change, each familiar item gradually bringing him a little more back to himself.

"Don't forget this."

Athos turned to see Aramis holding his pauldron in his hands, an impossibly fond smile gracing his handsome features. Reluctantly he shook his head.

"This was all on me. DuPont's fascination with me led you all into danger. My faults are my own. I would never wish that my actions would bring Treville's judgment in recruiting a man like me into question or dishonour to the regiment. But perhaps I was a fool to think it could be otherwise. I will advise Treville of my decision to resign my commission as soon as we return to Paris."

"You will do nothing of the sort," Aramis chided, as he stepped forward, continuing to speak as he slid the pauldron up Athos' arm and buckled it securely into place with deft, careful, movements. "Firstly, we're musketeers, danger is our life blood. Secondly, I for one have no wish to face Treville if you decide to resign. You are fast becoming his favourite and he will undoubtedly find some way to make it my fault. Thirdly, you are my brother now. Mine and Porthos' You don't get away from us that easily."

"You must have questions," Athos could not look at him. "Ask whatever you wish. I will answer fully."

There was a great deal Aramis wanted to know. Not least why such a good man felt he had so much to atone for. Or how a man clearly raised to some great responsibility had found his way to be a lowly musketeer. But looking at Athos he knew a single question, any hint that this endeavour had eroded his faith in him, and he would be lost to him for ever.

"No, not a one," He spoke brightly.

Athos head came up sharply at that. When Aramis saw the raw hope warring with shocked disbelief in his eyes he knew he had made the right decision. He would not ask and he would ensure LeBrun and Renard did not ask either.

"If you ever wish to talk I will be a willing ear but I already know everything I need to about the type of man you are," Aramis allowed, as he slipped a hand around Athos' neck and squeezed firmly. "And I love you for it."

"And yet you should not," Athos looked him straight in the eye. "I am not worthy of such."

"Athos, my brother," Aramis moved his hand to place it on Athos' cheek. "I will follow your orders in all other things. But you do _not_ get to decide whether or not you are loved."

After a moment's hesitation, Athos covered Aarmis' hand with his own.

AN – Many thanks to everyone for bearing with this. The next chapter will pick off where we left off in "Slight of Hand." But I needed to plant a few seeds for future chapters and also wanted to do this Aramis and Athos backstory justice. Although, it was surprising difficult for me to write them _not_ instinctively knowing what the other was up and to take into account that whatever Athos may, (or may not), have told DuPont Aramis cannot know for certain who he is until "Commodities" which led to about a week of re-writes. I sincerely hope it works for you all in the end!

AN2 - Spanish paper is a sort of rouge according to a most interesting website I found on 17thC makeup.


	8. Chapter 8

In apology for the very long wait for the last chapter here is more swiftly another long one - the remainder of 'Sleight of Hand'. This was a bit tricky for me as I have already written various missing scenes for this episode in "I taught him that move." so have tried for a different angle here, (spot the _massive_ plot hole they left), many thanks for your continued support. Coming next – Commodities!

To the anon reviewer who wanted to know about the website on 17th Century make up – it was the Royal Museums, Greenwich, it was talking about England but I figure most of the same techniques would hold true for France.

Athos blinked as a plate of fresh bread with a generous slice of brie appeared in his line of vision. It had been hours since the break out from the Chatelet and darkness had fallen with no word of d'Artagnan. Porthos had worked tirelessly traipsing the back streets of Paris, using both threats and promises to try and secure any clue, but either his network of contacts had genuinely seen or heard nothing, or they were too scared of Vadim to cross him.

"You need to eat," Aramis slid into the seat beside him. "None of us will be any good to the boy if we're faint with hunger when the time comes to fight."

"And if Vadim has already dumped his body in the Seine?" Athos gave him a dark look. "What help will we be to him then?"

"Athos, my friend, this is _me_. Despite your best efforts at being moody and unapproachable you cannot deny you've been impressed with the boy's spirit," Aramis leant forward to snag a piece of bread from Athos' plate. "He may yet surprise us all."

"He's far too impetuous for his own good," Athos huffed, although, Aramis _did _have a point. "But I suppose if we haven't the least idea what he's thinking then neither will Vadim. I'll admit he's not quite what I expected from a Gascon farm boy."

Even more pertinently d'Artagnan might be the exact age his brother would have been had he lived and share Thomas' compassion, but there was a steel and tenacity in him that his gentle brother had not possessed.

"You never speak of Thomas," Aramis read his thoughts easily as he broke the bread in two and held half of it under Athos nose until he reluctantly began to eat. "If I should die, I would want you to tell everyone stories of my bravery, how handsome I was, not to mention my charming personality."

"Thomas was not as vain as you." Athos said dryly.

"But still," Aramis spoke gently. "He was your brother and he loved you dearly. And yet everything I know about Thomas comes from young Phillipe."

"You needed a new mount," Athos reminded him. "Something reliable enough to carry you into battle if need be. Phillipe knows more about horseflesh than anyone else I know, that is all."

"There was a bit more to it than that," Aramis countered gently. "Phillipe was Thomas' childhood friend and you put aside your own pain to take Porthos and I to Beauvais to ensure that I had the best horse money could buy. Because, my dear Athos, that is the sort of brother you have _always_ been."

Aramis knew that he should feel at least a little guilty that he had told Treville nothing about their trip to Beauvais when their Captain had clearly suspected _something_. But the visit had been such an overwhelming act of love and trust on Athos' part that Aramis had been loath to betray his confidence even to the Captain.

"When I write to Phillipe I always tell him how his mare continues to thrive under your care and that she has done her duty admirably in keeping you safe," Athos spoke quietly. "I could ask for no better outcome."

"Athos, everything should not be .."

Whatever else Aramis might have said was cut off when the familiar figure of Constance Bonacieux hastened into the courtyard. She looked around anxiously, until her gaze fell on Athos and she hurried over.

"D'Artagnan says you are to come as soon as possible," She shot a scathing look at Aramis. "Unless, you are still prepared to abandon him to his fate?"

"Is he safe?" Athos was already on his feet.

Athos _was_ impressed that d'Artagnan had thought to cast Madame Bonacieux as his mistress to send word. It was exactly the sort of ploy a man like Vadim would believe. Also with how the boy was all business, focused on the task in hand, rather than angling for praise. When d'Artagnan looked him in the eye and asked for his trust it was no co-incidence that he clapped him on the right shoulder where one day a musketeer's pauldron might stand.

Still, with the boy remaining a wanted fugitive the Red Guards were an ever present danger. Rushing to d'Artagnan's aid in the alley he was initially simply relieved to find him safe and his two would be assailants dead at his feet. He wasn't sure if sending Porthos to watch his back was more for the boy's comfort or his own.

"That's curious." Aramis' tone caught his attention. "This one was brought down by a blade," He turned one of the corpses over with his foot. "And that one was shot from behind. Does that sound like our little Gascon?"

"Given that he was unarmed, not particularly," Athos frowned.

The two experienced soldiers exchanged a telling look recognising by the way the wounds were placed and how the bodies had fallen that there was only one possible conclusion.

"Neither of these men were killed by d'Artagnan." Athos observed.

"I didn't think he knew anyone else in Paris," Aramis did not try to hide his surprise. "Much less anyone who could kill with this kind of precision."

"No," Athos shared his concern. "Neither did I."

After everything they had learnt about how dangerous a foe Vadim was, the man's particular fondness for the dramatic, coupled with finding blood in the cellar, Athos had fully expected when they cornered him that he would boast of killing d'Artagnan. The explosion that almost did for him and Porthos did nothing to fuel any hope Athos had that they might actually find the boy alive. To learn that he had not only survived but fatally wounded Vadim was particularly gratifying.

"He's a mite quiet," Porthos' brow wrinkled, as they stood on the banks of the Seine, watching as Aramis' careful hands probed the bleeding wound on the young Gascon's head. "You'd think he'd be crowing about taking down a man like Vadim pretty much singlehanded."

"Indeed." Athos murmured. The boy had every right to be preening at his success in killing one of the crown's most dangerous enemies. That he was not demonstrated an unexpected level of maturity, although the despondent set of his shoulders was cause for concern.

"What happened here?"

The note of alarm in Aramis' voice instantly caught their attention. They swiftly crossed to d'Artagnan's side as Aramis tugged up d'Artagnan's sleeves to reveal the raw marks of rope burns. The boy looked away, hot colour burning his cheeks as he refused to answer even as Aramis reached into his jacket for his ever present pot of ointment and began applying the healing salve to the raw marks.

"Treville will expect the truth." Athos warned, his own concern making his tone sterner than he intended.

"I know," D'Artagnan bit his lip, looking the picture of misery. "You were right, I wasn't ready for this."

"Really?" Athos enquired, his bland tone giving not the slightest indication of his own conflicting emotions. "How so?"

When all an obviously exhausted d'Artagnan could manage was to stare steadfastly at his feet and not answer it was testament to the bond between these three men that all it took was a covert shake of Aramis' head and a lift of Athos' eyebrow in Porthos' direction, for a surprisingly gentle arm to be wrapped firmly around the young Gascon's shoulders. 

"C'mon," Porthos encouraged. "What you need is some strong drink and a good feed everything'll seem right as rain after that."

Torn between duty and sentiment, Athos hesitated, but when the tilt of Aramis' head asked the silent question he sighed and indicated that he would remain behind. Someone had to see that Vadim's body was secured and given how closely this matter had touched the King Treville would be waiting impatiently to be appraised of developments. He trusted his brothers implicitly to ensure d'Artagnan was well taken care of.

"We'll be in the Swan, when you're done." Aramis nodded his understanding. "Don't be too long. You had a hard time of things last night too."

By the time Athos had tied up all the loose ends, made his report to Treville and finally made it to the Swan the table was covered with empty plates and a couple of empty bottles. As he sank wearily into a chair he winced at the reminder of his numerous bruises. He was grateful beyond words when the serving girl, clearly primed by his friends to expect his arrival, brought a tray with another cup, a fresh bottle of wine and a bowl of surprisingly good rabbit stew.

"How is he?" He murmured to Porthos.

"Nothing that won't heal in a day or two, it's his pride that's hurt the most. Vadim knowing he was a spy all long has got him all down in the dumps. Tied him to those barrels of gun power he used to blow the Palace. But he got himself free and used Vadim's own trick of making 'im look the other way to run him through. Pretty clever I'd say."

"Indeed." Athos tipped his head on one side and managed to catch Aramis' eye.

"D'Artagnan, I've been meaning to ask," Aramis, scooted his chair a little closer to the table as he spoke as if it was of no consequence. "How did you manage to deal with those two Red Guards in the ally?"

"Oh, that wasn't me," d'Artagnan felt obliged to admit the truth, although his pride baulked at admitting it was a woman. He had already had Constance coming to his rescue at the Garrison he did not what these men to think he actually _did _need a woman to save him. "This figure just came out of no-where and killed them both before I could act. They wanted to know where Vadim was. They said they had a powerful patron and I could have all the riches and power I desired if I took them to him."

"An agent of the Cardinal, perhaps?" Aramis suggested.

"Sounds like the sort of thing he'd get up to," Porthos agreed. "Although, Vadim had a lot of enemies, word is Suzette Pinault's been murdered. She was found choked to death. Someone mostly likely wanted to keep her quiet about whatever she knew."

"Did this man say anything else that might prove enlightening?" Athos enquired.

D'Artagnan didn't bother to correct the assumption that it was a man. He was too busy trying to control the flush he could feel creeping up his neck at the thought of her lips almost touching his, her hands caressing him and the seductive tone of her voice as she spoke of their night together. She had killed a man in cold blood and tried to frame him for the murder. She had put her knife, a knife that had just killed a man, to his throat before she disappeared. She should make his flesh creep. He couldn't explain, even to himself, why he found her so intoxicating.

"Nothing of any consequence," He managed. "They fled when they heard Athos calling my name."

Nor did he see any reason to tell them that she had warned him against throwing in his lot with the musketeers. He didn't want to give them any more reason to think that he wasn't a worthy candidate for the regiment. His own failings had surely already done that. He was dreading having to explain to Treville how he had been so thoroughly duped. No doubt he would be sent straight back to Gascony his dreams of becoming a Musketeer in tatters. Surging to his feet, he barely managed a mumbled apology, knocking over his chair in his haste to get outside. As soon as the stench of the street hit him in the face, he bent double, surrendering to a wave of nausea. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, emptying the contents of his stomach into the dirt, before a firm hand took him by the shoulders and guided him to a nearby bench.

"Sit," A voice said, not unkindly. "Take steady breaths."

"I'm alright," d'Artagnan tipped his head back a little. "I'm alright."

"No, you're not," Athos informed him without censor, settling beside him. "But you will be."

"Sorry," Somehow d'Artganan found the strength to look at him. "I'm so sorry. Vadim set me up. All the time I thought I was helping he was just using me. He gave me the map and some coin to buy wine as if I was his errand boy and idiot that I was I did exactly as he wished."

"Any of us would have done the same," Athos consoled. "For a moment we all looked the other way. You are no more to blame in that respect than any of us. Even Treville was convinced the plot was genuine."

"Because he trusted me, he believed me, but I let him down," d'Artagnan berated himself. "And I let you down. You tried to tell me I was in over my head and I wouldn't listen."

"I thought my heart would stop when I found blood in that cellar." Athos said after a long moment.

"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan thought guiltily of the brother Athos had lost. The one he wasn't supposed to know about. "I never meant to make you worry. You did everything you could to keep me safe. If Vadim had killed me it would have been no-one's fault but my own."

"And yet you kept your head, not only were you able to effect an escape but you used his own tactics against him to run him through," Athos praised, re-enforcing his words with an unexpected squeeze to the nape of d'Artagnan's neck. The comforting weight of his hand made the Gascon suck in a ragged breath as he felt the warmth of that approval all the way down to his toes. "None of us could have done any better."

"Waking up tied to barrels of gun power was quite motivating," D'Artagnan smiled a little bitterly. "I told Vadim it didn't matter what happened to me because I had already told you everything. Once I realised it was all a trick I knew I had to get out of there and warn you all. I couldn't bear the fact that any of you might be harmed because I'd been so blind."

"_That's _what you were thinking about when you were tied to barrels of gunpowder?" Athos enquired.

He knew it was ridiculous to feel pride when he had done everything he could to avoid training the boy and to prevent d'Artagnan taking this mission. The boy's admirable qualities were all his own. And yet Athos could not help but wonder what such remarkable potential might become with the right training.

"I should never have let myself be in that position in the first place," D'Artagnan berated himself. "A true musketeer would have been more careful."

"Did you know that thanks to Vadim's machinations Porthos and I were almost blown to bits," Athos said conversationally. "And that Aramis quite lost sight of his wits and threw himself on top of a bomb."

"I'd be dead now if it wasn't for Athos, here," Porthos' voice put in, as he cast Athos a fond look. "His quick thinking saved both our lives. The trick ain't avoiding danger, but finding ways to survive, that's what makes you stronger."

D'Artagnan looked up to see that both Aramis and Porthos had followed them outside and were standing just a short distance away regarding them with twin indulgent expressions. D'Artagnan blushed hotly as he realised that not only was Athos' hand was still resting comfortingly on his neck but that he did not seem inclined to remove it anytime soon.

"Did you really throw yourself on a _bomb_?" He asked Aramis with a touch of awe.

"It was something of an emergency," Aramis came forward and nudged Athos slightly to make him move up so he could slide in beside him on the bench. "And it turned out to be faulty, so, there was no harm done."

"You didn't know it was a dud," Porthos' tone suggested he wasn't remotely placated as he squeezed himself in, on the other side next to d'Artagnan, so that they were sitting four abreast. "I swear if you ever do anything that stupid again I'll kill you myself."

"Duly noted," Aramias acknowledged, before continuing in a lofty tone. "Next time I will ignore my fealty to their Majesties, my loyalty to the regiment, my obedience to the Captain's orders, .."

"As I recall, Treville told you _not _to do it," Athos interjected dourly. "Although, I can see how you might have become confused. You do have a disconcerting tendency to believe that "_No, Aramis_." actually means "by all means carry on with your suicidal plan."

"You see what I have to put up with?" Aramis huffed at d'Artagnan, before he sobered his eyes suddenly so sharp and _knowing_ that d'Artagnan struggled to hold his gaze. "A career as a Musketeer is not without risks d'Artagnan. We have all had our brushes with disaster, you could have surrendered to your fate, but you chose to _live_. That takes both courage and strength. Believe me, I know."

"What we are all trying to say is that you have the makings of a fine musketeer," Athos moved his grip to the back of d'Artagnan's jacket and hauled him to his feet. The other two automatically fell into step beside them as they made their way down the street. "Do not doubt your capabilities. Your only fault was a lack of training and I would gladly remedy that, if you are still willing to grant me that honour?"

D'Artagnan stopped walking so suddenly, Aramis nearly barrelled into the back of him.

"Of course, if you would prefer to choose another," Athos spoke stiffly, mistaking his surprise for rejection. "You may count on my full support with Treville."

"The Captain _is_ still insisting that I find someone to sponsor my training," d'Artagnan gave him a lopsided smile, full of fondness. "I suppose I could always ask Aramis?"

Athos supposed he deserved that. Still, he arranged his features into an appropriate expression of disdain. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that."

"Or perhaps Porthos might oblige?" d'Artagnan said brightly.

"Are you _trying _to get me to hurt you?" Athos challenged.

With a soft smile gracing his features d'Artagnan did his best to put all of his gratitude and affection into his expression as he shyly gripped his Athos' arm. The man was the most respected soldier in the entire regiment. He knew how frequently the younger recruits sought out his experience and advice. He felt honoured beyond words that Athos would offer him, not only his skill, but also his friendship.

"Thank you." He closed his eyes tight. He was tired and sore and utterly drained but he was _not_ going to cry. "Thank you so much."

When Athos lightly covered his hand with his own and squeezed gently it was almost his undoing.

"Right, bed time for you, my friend," Pothos clapped him fondly on the back. "You look done in."

"But it's only the middle of the day," D'Artagnan protested as his eyes popped open, despite his exhaustion, feeling ridiculously like a child sent to bed early. "Don't I need to go to the Garrison? Treville be expecting my report."

"It can wait. Vadim will be just as dead tomorrow," Aramis quipped. "The first rule of being a good musketeer is to take your rest when you can. You never know when the next set of orders might arrive."

"Except, I can't go back to the Bonacieux's," d'Artagnan groaned. "He still thinks I'm a wanted fugitive."

"We'll take care of it," Aramis assured him. "Athos will be icily aloof. I will be utterly charming. And Porthos will be politely deadly. By the time we are done with Monsieur Bonacieux you will be the hero of the hour."

"Just him?" d'Artagnan looked crestfallen. "I mean, don't you think we owe Constanc .. I mean Madame Bonacieux our apologies as well? She should be there too."

"Do you think so?" Aramis considered that as he slipped a companionable arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders. "Women are generally rather appreciative when _I_ kiss them. They don't require apologies. Perhaps, your technique needs some work?"

"My technique?" d'Artagnan spluttered.

"Think we need to separate 'em?" Porthos chortled quietly from behind.

"More likely knock their heads together," Athos rolled his eyes. "Remind me again why I thought taking the boy on would a good idea?"

"Too much wine," Porthos grinned at him knowingly. "And a soft heart."

As Aramis has predicted a few well-placed words were all it took to quell any objections from Bonacieux. Still as the three musketeers took their leave Porthos' could not help but notice the stiff set of Athos' shoulders. With a knowing sigh he tangled a hand in those wild curls and tugged him a little closer.

"He weren't hurt that badly," He reminded. "A lump on the head, a few bruises, some skin rubbed off his wrists, nothing life threatenin' for all that you're just aching to tuck 'im into bed."

"I know," Athos admitted. "He'll be perfectly fine I'm sure."

"Except for the fact that the boy is utterly friendless in Paris, has only recently lost his father and has been through something of an ordeal," Aramis observed. "What?" He protested, when Porthos glared at him. "One of us_ should_ be with him. Obviously, it can't be me I've already been slapped twice today."

"And it can't be me," Athos looked conflicted. "I've put Bonacieux in his place twice already. If I go back he will doubtless complain to the Cardinal about harassment which will embarrass Treville."

"Well, I can do it," Porthos shrugged. "I can be in and out of d'Artagnan's window before anyone but the whelp knows I was there."

And so it was, with the hope in Athos' eyes and the approval in Aramis' expression lingering in his mind's eye that he found himself perched on the edge of d'Artagnan's narrow bed, a broad palm settling soothingly on his forehead as the lad thrashed in the throws of an obvious nightmare.

"Easy now," He soothed, one large thumb caressing a vulnerable temple. "You're alright."

"P'rthos?" d'Artagnan blinked up at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Athos is a worry wart, Aramis always thinks we're hiding injuries from him and I wanted to be sure you got a good night's rest, take your pick?" Porthos suggested, even as he shrugged off his boots and jacket and shoved d'Artagnan over so he could fit in beside him, wrapping a comforting arm around his shoulders, pulling the Gascon's head down onto his shoulders. "There now, that's better isn't it?"

"Depends," d'Artagnan observed, even as he pressed his side a little closer against Porthos. "Do you snore?"

"Ah ha, what's this then?" Porthos grinned as he looked up and noticed the small posy of blue flowers tied with a ribbon to the headboard. "Looks like the lovely Madame Bonacieux is sweet on you."

"She's _married_," d'Artagnan reminded him. "They're .. from someone else."

"Oh hey, gone and got yourself an admirer have you?"

"It's nothing really," D'Artagnan could feel himself blushing. "Just a .. token."

"Mattered enough for you to hold onto it," Porthos observed not unkindly. He peered up at the little flowers, he wasn't much of a one for botany but he liked learning new things and he had a feeling he had seen these ones before. "That means it ain't exactly nothing."

"Not anything important," In the darkness d'Artagnan sounded a little flustered. "I just .. haven't had time to throw them away."

"Whatever you say," Porthos shrugged, he was just teasing it wasn't really any of his business. "Get some sleep, yeah?"

It was only when d'Artagnan was sleeping soundly in his arms that he remembered with a sudden chill that those little blue flowers were actually forget-me-nots and _exactly_ where he had seen them before, carefully pressed inside the silver locket Athos always wore as a precious memory of his dead wife. And just what it had taken for his brother to confess to _that._ It had to be a pure co-incidence that d'Artagnan's mysterious admirer has chosen the favour flower of Athos' long dead wife. But still Porthos would do whatever he could to save his brother needless pain.

He waited until the morning to say anything, as if it was a matter of no importance.

"About them flowers, best not mention them to Athos, eh?"

"You think he'd disapprove?" d'Artagnan's face fell.

"Naw, he wouldn't particularly care," Porthos didn't want to make anything of this. "But he has enough to deal with, with Aramis' exploits. If it's really nothing why add to his worry?"

"Good point," d'Artagnan acknowledged. "I'll bear that in mind."

AN – Expect to hear more of both Phillipe and Athos' confession that he was married later in the story!


	9. Chapter 9

AN – I suspect I could work on this chapter forever and still be nervous about posting as it is such a pivotal episode. Because of that I'm not actually done with "Commodities" yet as there is so much to say, but it was getting unmanageably long, and I hoped you might enjoy getting this first part.

* * *

"So, why are we going to Le Harve?"

D'Artagnan tightened his horse's girth before swinging himself up into the saddle. Beside him Aramis was already mounted, his mare dancing a little in place eager for the off. Next to him Porthos stood packing the last of their provisions into his saddle bag, Athos' horse tied up beside him, flicking his tail, as they all waited for their leader to finish speaking to Treville.

"Some merchant who's committed crimes against the King is in port. We're to ride there and arrest 'im before he can sail off again." Porthos told him.

"Doesn't sound too hard," d'Artagnan observed. Part of him had hoped for a little more excitement. "How much trouble can a merchant be?"

Granted Bonnaire was not_ quite _what he expected with his extravagant gestures and his outrageous flirting. If it wasn't for the figures lurking in the shadows he might have doubted Treville's intelligence. Of course, that was before Bonnaire's good lady had wife had sunk her teeth into his hand and the merchant had not only been divested of concealed weapons but also tried to escape out the window. Catching the merchant with his metaphorical breeches down was particularly satisfying. The slow pace of their journey with Porthos' horse tethered to Bonnaire's wagon of treasures, rather less so, and the ambush at the outbuildings a distinctly unpleasant surprise.

"Might Porthos really die?" He asked Aramis quietly, slowing his horse slightly to keep pace with the wagon, Bonnaire now at the reigns and Porthos resting in the back, as they followed Athos' lead through narrow country lanes.

"Athos said this place was nearby," Aramis retorted tightly. "The quicker I am able to clean and sew his wound the better his chances."

"And you couldn't have done that by the roadside?" d'Artagnan asked diffidently.

"If I had to," Aramis acknowledged, favouring the Gascon with a swift look. "But such battlefield medicine is often too close to butchery, wherever possible clean, dry, conditions assure a better outcome for the patient."

D'Artagnan looked around curiously as they passed through a village. They seemed to be creating quite a stir. People were stopping what they were doing to stare openly as they muttered among themselves. He hadn't expected a group of King's musketeers would be such an unusual sight.

"So, this place Athos knows," he prompted. "Have you been this way before?"

"No," Aramis frowned deeply as his sharp ears caught a muttered _he's back_ from one of the women and a curl of unease settled in his stomach. "We usually stick to the main road. We've never been this way before."

Aramis held his peace as Athos unlatched the heavy wooden doors to the four story mansion. He did not question as Athos led them unerringly into a drawing room, with a large fireplace and furniture shrouded in dust sheets. His unease growing he didn't even make a joke when the first thing Athos did was offer them wine and he said nothing at all as d'Artagnan asked the thing uppermost in all their minds.

"So, how did you know about this place?"

"I own it."

"You own _this_ house?" d'Artagnan clearly wanted to be sure he'd heard right. "But it's huge. How many rooms does it have?"

"I have no idea, it never occurred to me to count them." He strode over to a pair of double doors, speaking without looking at Aramis as he opened them. "You'll need to lay him somewhere flat to sew his wound. There's a table through here."

"We can't use that, that's a proper piece of craftsmanship," Pothos objected, as Aramis helped him into the lavish dining room complete with tapestries. "I'll get blood all over it."

"It's just a table. I'm sure Athos values your life more than an unfeeling block of wood, no matter how grand it is," Aramis' tone was as arched as his brow. "If this place still held any sentimental value for him he would not have hesitated to bring us here."

"_Aramis!_"

He didn't actually need to hear Porthos' sharp rebuke, coupled with the best glare his friend could muster, under the circumstances, or to see d'Artagnan's shocked expression, to know that he had gone too far. This was not a house Athos would have purchased on a whim. This was without doubt the home his family had dwelled in for generations. A place he and his brother would have played as children.

"My apologies," he tried, and failed, to catch Athos' eye. "That was uncalled for."

"Not at all," Athos' tone was politeness itself, but Aramis knew him well enough to read the stark hurt underneath. "Please, do carry on. You are right, it is merely a table."

"It's more than that," Porthos put in, unable to suppress a wince as Aramis began to help him out of his jacket and shirt, so he could lie down. "It's your home. It's only right to treat it with respect."

"I appreciate the sentiment," Athos' eyes grew distant. "But this place is not my home. It has not been for quite some time."

"But this house?" d'Artagnan asked, out of a mix of naivety and simple curiosity, what the others could not. "This is where you grew up?"

"Yes. I was born Oliver d'Athos, de la Fere," Athos said tonelessly. "I inherited the title of Comte on my father's death."

"You were the Comte de la Fere?" Aramis tone was lightly mocking, as he rolled out his sewing kit. He did not seem able to help himself. "A son of the nobility?"

* * *

Once Porthos' wound was cleaned and stitched and he was snoring quietly on the sofa, Aramis and d'Artagnan dragged Bonnaire outside to find some wood for the fire and Athos went to seek out candles from somewhere in the depths of the house. Bonnaire sat on a tree stump and watched as the musketeers split logs from the wood store and then complained long and loud when required to help carry them back to the house. When they finally returned, there was a pile of candles on the side table, Porthos was blinking the sleep from his eyes and Athos was no-where to be seen.

"Do you think he's alright?" d'Artagnan worried. "Should I go and look for him?"

"I doubt Athos can get lost in his own house," Bonnaire observed loftily, as he settled down for a nap after his exertions. "Would someone be kind enough to wake me when supper is ready?"

"Since when did we become his servants?" d'Artagnan commented, as he rifled through the sack of provisions, pulling out ingredients. They had replenished their supplies in Le Harve so there was enough to make a decent meal. "He acts more like a Comte than Athos."

"Can you see Athos with a Valet helping him into his braies?" Porthos grinned wickedly. "That'd make 'im uncomfortable alright."

"So, did you really have no idea he was a member of the nobility?" D'Artagnan glanced curiously from Porthos to Aramis.

"I wouldn't say no idea exactly," Aramis said cryptically, as he busied himself setting the fire. "There were certain indications."

"A Comte though," Porthos put in. "We wasn't expecting that."

"And from one of the finest families in France," Aramis smiled mirthlessly, as the blaze took to his satisfaction and he sank back on his haunches. "He could be a minster of the Crown if he chose."

"Really?" d'Artagnan was surprised at that. "So, why did he decide to enter the King's service as a musketeer?"

"Why not?" Porthos evaded. "S'a fine thing to be."

"That's certainly true," d'Artagnan smiled, thinking of his own aspirations. He was vividly reminded of the moment back at the Chatelet when Aramis had reverently slid the musketeer insignia back onto Athos' arm, buckling the straps with infinite care, before gripping his shoulder with fierce affection as their eyes met. Then Porthos had stepped up, offering Athos his sword and musket, blinking away tears at the thought of what might have been, only relaxing into a warm smile and clapping his friend soundly on the back once the weapons were safely stowed where they belonged.

And Athos had stood just a little straighter for having all of those things around him.

"But if he's that important he must have been presented at Court," d'Artagnan realised suddenly. "Athos has Palace duty all the time. He can't have changed that much in five years. Surely someone would recognise him?"

"You haven't been to the Palace yet," Porthos reminded. "It's not like you'd think."

"Musketeers don't attract much attention from the court elite," Aramis spoke up. "We are rather like bookends. There to serve a function but not anything to distract your attention from the higher purpose of stabbing those around you in the back. The nobility are all the same only interested in their own aggrandisement."

Porthos frowned. Whilst it wasn't uncommon for them to sit around after long, boring, generally uncomfortable, hours of palace duty and gently mock the nobility for their self-indulgence the sharp edge of bitterness to Aramis' tone was new and deliberate.

"D'Artagnan?" Porthos waited until the boy looked up, "I've got a proper thirst on, could you maybe find me some water?"

"Of course," the boy lit up with his eagerness to be useful. "I'll be right back."

"No hurry, take your time," Porthos assured him, his steady gaze fixed on Aramis. As soon as the Gascon was out of earshot he asked the very necessary question. "Alright, why are you so mad at Athos?"

"Why _aren't_ you?" Aramis countered.

"Maybe because I know what it's like to have people judge you just because of where you come from. Athos didn't ask to be born into the nobility any more than I had a choice about being born in the Court."

"It's hardly the same thing," Aramis scoffed.

"Ain't it?" Porthos tipped his head on one side. "Seems to me he was right not to tell us if this is the way you start treatin' 'im."

"Don't you understand?" Aramis surged to his feet, his fist clenched. "You could have _died_ on that roadside. He had a means to save you and he wanted to ride on, wait till dark."

"But he didn't and here we are, warm and safe and nothing to complain about," Porthos eyed him steadily. "How quick would you be to return to the woods of Savoy, eh?"

Aramis bristled slightly at the comparison, but under Porthos' knowing gaze he could not find the words to deny the justice of that statement.

"Cept that ain't really what you're so mad about, is it?" Porthos observed astutely. "You're mad that it's been five years and he never said."

Aramis couldn't deny it. In those quiet, intimate, moments in the aftermath of pitched battles, during companionable evenings around the campfire, passing long tiring days in the saddle, Porthos had gradually opened up about his life in the Court of Miracles, Aramis had confided in his friends about Isabelle and their doomed love, and Athos had let it be known that he had once had a younger brother and, to their great surprise, a wife.

He hadn't needed details to recognise the level of trust their taciturn leader had placed in them by revealing even that much. But he had never imagined that his brother had kept something like this from them.

And it hurt.

* * *

They didn't see Athos again until darkness had fallen. To Porthos' dismay he looked pale and haunted as he came to ask how he was. Being here clearly wasn't doing him a bit of good. Right then Porthos would have said or done anything to take _that_ look off his face. So he put all the conviction he could muster into his words.

"Fine and fit."

Athos, bless his heart, was still prepared to defer to Aramis' medical judgement. But Aramis, stubborn as ever, was at his most insouciant, the grudging assertion that he could travel _if he must _made Porthos scowl at being made a weapon to heap even more guilt on Athos' shoulders. If Porthos was _actually_ unfit to travel Aramis would not have hesitated to say so.

But before he could open his mouth to protest Bonnaire decided to join the conversation. Porthos was momentarily cheered by the look of icy disdain the merchant's assertion that being here 'must bring back all sorts of memories' brought to Athos' face but then he noted how Athos' fists had curled into themselves so tightly his knuckles had turned white, and after a moment, blood began to trickle between his fingers and drip onto the floor. As he turned away Porthos caught such a look of anguish in his eyes that he had half got up, before his wound flared a protest, and by the time he had breathed through the pain Athos was gone.

"He hasn't spent any time with us since we got here," d'Artagnan worried. "He didn't have any supper and the rest of this place is like a mausoleum. What is he doing?"

_Mourning, _the realisation hit Porthos like a punch to the gut. Athos wasn't avoiding them, he was confronting his demons and they were letting him do it alone. _That_ was bang out of order.

"Go after him," Porthos looked at Aramis, his tone brooking no argument. "Take your head out of your arse and go and sort this out. Or I'll do it myself and I'll make sure I rip every one of your stitches while I'm about it."

"Of course," To his credit Aramis looked equally concerned at the uncharacteristically public display of emotion, his eyes fixed on the small trail of little red circles that Athos had left in his wake. "Remiss of me not to have done so earlier."

It wasn't hard for Aramis to follow the footprints which cut through the thick dust on the stairs up to the first floor. They went in and out of the main bedroom before disappearing into a room at the end of the corridor. Pausing on the threshold Aramis discovered Athos sitting in a large room stripped bare of even a single stick of furniture, his back against the wall and his head buried in his bent knees, a stub of a candle by his side, as he wept inconsolably. Just by his left foot was a large, dark, stain discolouring the wooden floorboards. Aramis froze as the solider in him recognised it at once for what it was - the loss of a man's life blood, or, _dear God_, a woman's, for Athos had never said how his wife had died.

Without a word he sank onto the floor beside Athos, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close, resting his chin on the bowed head and murmuring a liturgy of comfort as he rocked him gently in his arms. He had never seen Athos so utterly broken and it shamed him that _this _was the level of anguish his brother had been fighting to contain ever since they had set foot into this place. _The level of anguish he fights to contain every day _his mind supplied unhelpfully. When Athos finally managed to slow his breathing and looked up with red rimmed eyes Aramis was the first to speak.

"How many times did you hold me after Savoy?" He reminded. "Do not even think about apologising for this. It is I who should be apologising."

Athos merely expressed his gratitude by leaning a little further into Aramis' embrace before he spoke.

"Perhaps there are other things for which I should express my regret."

"Nothing of consequence," Aramis soothed. "Porthos is safe and well, thanks to your courage in bringing us here. Bonnaire has been inconvenienced, which is something of a bonus. My only concern is that you felt unable to talk to us. Was it such a difficult thing to share?"

"When I realised where we were, I could not bear it," Athos admitted. "I never wanted you or Porthos to know about this part of me. I felt as if the man who was the Comte de la Fere died alongside my brother and my wife. When Treville granted me the opportunity to re-make myself in the musketeers I hoped that the simple life of a soldier would allow me to atone for my failure to save those I love, by ensuring that others without coin or contacts to recommend them might find their justice."

Aramis sucked in a ragged breath and tipped his head back as he tried to blink the tears from his own eyes, being reminded, as so often before, why he loved, this man, so fiercely.

"You are a simple soldier who is a natural leader, who chooses to say as little as possible so as not to betray the fact that he has the speech and manners of a man of quality, not to mention the benefit of a rigorous classical education," Aramis put all of his fondness for this impossible man in his tone as he carefully picked up one of Athos' hands in his own. "And hands as soft and lily white as one of the Queen's ladies."

He secretly congratulated himself as Athos managed a half decent glare at that.

"Apart from the sword callousness, of course." Aramis amended with a grin.

He gently uncurled the long, elegant, fingers, noting without surprise that his nails were stained with blood and there were little semi-circular wounds marring his palm. Taking out his handkerchief he cleaned them as best he could, using careful strokes to gently wipe away the hurt.

"You never asked," Athos surprised him. "After, DuPont held us prisoner I kept expecting that one day you would demand the truth of me. But you never have."

"No, I had rather hoped that you might feel able to tell me," Aramis admitted, patting Athos' hand to mitigate the sting of those words. "Although, I confess, I rather neglected to appreciate the magnitude of what that might entail. As you have frequently been at pains to remind me, I am rather vain."

"I must go to the Church and visit the family vault," Athos made no attempt to move from Aramis' embrace. "I have avoided that duty for far too long."

"Not tonight," Aramis vetoed that as he carded a hand through Athos' hair, all too aware that up here the combined heat of their bodies was their only defence up here against the chill of the night. He wanted to get Athos downstairs as soon as possible. "Tonight you are going to eat a little something and warm yourself by the fire, we can deplete your wine cellar and you can rest beside your brothers and no one will be remotely annoying."

"Not even Bonnaire?" Athos challenged mildly.

"Especially not Bonnaire. We can threaten to leave his wagon behind when we depart for Paris," Aramis grinned tightly. "Imagine the quite ugly things the King may do to him if he doesn't come bearing gifts."

* * *

Aramis was not surprised when Athos absented himself from the burial of Maria Bonnaire, nor to discover the crate of wine which had appeared on the dining room table. No doubt the man had had his fill of funerals associated with this place and needed something to take the edge off. To be honest he was astonished there was only one bottle missing.

"Athos says we're to get back on the road and get Bonnaire to Paris." D'Artagnan spoke from behind him. "He said there was someone he needed to see in the village. Oh, and we're not to leave Porthos alone with Bonnaire."

"He's not coming with us?" Aramis couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Not right now," d'Artagnan looked unhappy. "I offered to go with him, but he ignored me."

Fear was a strange emotion, Aramis reflected. He had seen it freeze some men into helplessness, so that they stood stock still even as their doom descended upon them. He had seen it galvanize others into feats of strength and remarkable courage. It showed itself through a myriad of emotions, compassion, grief, wariness. Right now the one Aramis was feeling uppermost was utter fury.

"You," He ordered d'Artagnan, even as he ran. "Stay with Porthos,"

"Wait, now where are _you_ going?" d'Artagnan called after him.

It was only the fact that they had untacked the horses and left them to graze after riding hard after Bonnaire and his wife that allowed Aramis to intercept Athos in time. As it was the man was just about to mount up, when Aramis put a hand on his rein to demand his attention.

"The boy says we are to leave without you." He challenged.

"As I'm sure he also relayed, I have some business to attend to in the village." Athos looked pointedly at Aramis hand, holding his horse in place.

"Then by all means, let's stay," Aramis took a step forward, trying for reasonable. "Porthos will be all the better for another day's rest and it won't do Bonnaire any harm to cool his heels wondering what the King has in store for him."

"No, we have a duty to the King to get Bonnaire back to Paris as soon as possible. Circumstances have already delayed us longer than Treville would expect. Take Porthos and d'Artagnan and get back on the road."

"Have you learnt _nothing _from any of this?" Aramis felt his temper rising as he gripped the arm bearing the musketeer insignia. "What is our motto Athos?"

"I hardly see how that applies here."

"One for all and all for one, united we stand, _divided we fall._" Aramis recited. "Why must you continue to insist to shoulder this burden alone?"

"This is not musketeer business," Athos insisted. "Getting Bonnaire to Paris is."

"And what am I supposed to tell Treville when we return without you?" Aramis stepped back so he could look Athos in the eye as a dreadful possibility occurred to him. Had the musketeers and everything they had shared been nothing but a temporary haven for the Comte? One that had outlived its usefulness now his identity was known? He could hardly bring himself to ask the question. "Do you think to remain here?"

"Of course not, I will re-join you on the road as soon as I have seen to my own affairs," Athos informed him coldly. "I am not Marsec to forget my duty and desert my post on a whim."

Things went rather downhill from there.

* * *

The silence in which they rode away from la Fere was anything but companionable. Bonnaire was sulking at having to leave the wagon behind. D'Artagnan kept looking behind him, as if hoping to see Athos coming down the road. Porthos sat as straight as his wound allowed in the saddle, his mouth set in a thin, disapproving line.

"You're angry at me," Aramis decided he might as well face the music. "Care to tell me why?"

"You know why. It ain't right to leave 'im alone back there."

"We had our orders. I merely hear and obey," Aramis tried for the moral high ground. "Besides, he was being unreasonable."

"He was trying to push you away and you let 'im," Porthos regarded him solemnly. "After Savoy, he took everything you could throw at him, no matter how bad things got, he stuck by you and just kept on coming back for more. You owe 'im better than this."

Neither man said anything for the next few miles.

"I _did_ think he'd be with us by now," Aramis finally admitted. "You don't think something might have happened to him?"

"With a cellar full of wine to hand and the ghosts of his dead brother and wife for company?" Porthos gave him a sardonic look. "What could possibly go wrong?"

"You're right. Of course, you're right," Aramis began to imagine the worse. "If he fell down the stairs he could hit his head. Or a shard from a broken glass might cut a vein. I've known men choke on their own vomit when they've drunk too much. Or drown in a puddle of water."

"So, we're going back, yeah?"

"We still have to get Bonnaire to Paris, and besides, if I go back he'll punch me," Aramis admitted. At Porthos' arched brow he had the grace to look a little sheepish. "I may have said some things."

"Of course you did," Porthos rolled his eyes. "Alright then, let's send the boy. You know how Athos dotes on 'im. He won't punch 'im and just maybe he'll talk to 'im about whatever's got 'im wound so tight. S'worth a try."

"You think he'd trust d'Artagnan more than us?" Aramis looked openly hurt at the prospect."But he's only just met him."

"This ain't about trust, you dolt," Porthos shook his head. "Think of it like lancing a wound, one that's been festering for five years. What's gotta be easier? Talking to a boy who already has a bad case of hero worship and won't press you for more than you're ready to tell? Or confessing all to the two people you love and fear most in the world."

That startled Aramis so much he actually reined his mount to a halt.

"Athos is _not_ afraid of us." He declared fervently.

"He's afraid of losing us." Porthos spoke with quiet certainty.

"_Oh_," Aramis suddenly felt as if his heart was in his throat and his chest too tight to breathe properly. What a fool he had been. "I hadn't actually thought about it like that."

"That's cos you're an idiot," Porthos told him fondly. "And so is he, right idiots the pair of you. Good job you have me to set you straight."

"Right then," Aramis made the decision. "Best send the boy back to make sure Athos doesn't fall face first into the candle and set fire to his beard again."


	10. Chapter 10

AN – Many thanks for your patience, favs, PMs and reviews. All feedback so very much appreciated for a story that is taking over my life! Welcome to part 2 of Commodities as things start to come together. Some of this chapter is taken from personal experience. On a day out on a boat the wind was nice and cool so I forgot to apply any sunscreen. My pale skin was burnt to a crisp and days of agony followed! Don't be me be sun safe!

* * *

Athos knew as he rode into the garrison that there would be questions. He was a day late. The smell of smoke still clung to his clothes. His beard and hair were somewhat singed, his leathers even a little charred in places and if anyone actually looked closely enough there was a small burn on the side of his head. His intent in telling d'Artagnan to say nothing to the others had not been an attempt to hide what had happened. In the circumstances he knew that would be rather futile, but to ensure that the boy would not cause his friends concern over things he had a duty to explain in his own words.

"What the 'ell happened to you?"

Porthos was there with a hand on his stirrup and worry in his eyes before he could even bring his horse to a halt.

"It's a long story," Athos levered himself wearily out of the saddle, unaccountably glad to be back in the familiar refuge of the Garrison. "Is Treville here?"

"Nah, he's at the Palace. He'll be gone for a couple of hours at least," Porthos' eyes narrowed as he peered a little closer toward Athos. "Is that a _burn_?"

"A small one," Athos swiftly moved to change the subject. "How is your wound? Did you get Bonnaire to the King safely?"

"Wound's healing just fine. Bonnaire, well that's another long story," Porthos made a face. "C'mon, let's get you cleaned up first and out of those clothes. You smell like a smoked fish."

The proprietorial grip Porthos had on his elbow made it clear he wasn't about to let Athos out of his sight any time soon. They went up to the small area of the end of the main barrack room that Porthos called home. Athos gratefully poured some water into a bowl and made another attempt at washing the clinging smell of smoke out of his hair and beard, before stripping off his jacket and shirt, using the cloth Porthos gave him to wipe down his upper body.

"I reckon this shirt's done for, but the jacket hasn't come off too badly. These bits here can be patched as good as new. A quick wipe down and a bit of an airing and it'll be right as .." Porthos trailed off.

"What is it?" Athos turned to look at him.

"Aramis said you had words," Porthos looked distressed. "He didn't tell me the two of you came to blows."

Athos closed his eyes briefly. He had been resolutely ignoring how stiff and tender his back and shoulders were feeling. He had forgotten that by now the bruises would be quite spectacular, as well as the raw grazes standing out starkly against his pale skin. But that was the least of his concerns. The state of his friendship with Aramis was clearly in question if Porthos could think their mutual friend had done this. Athos wondered what exactly Aramis had told him. But, coward that he was, he did not dare ask.

"Aramis did not cause this."

"Come off it," Porthos scoffed. "You don't get them sort of bruises from a simple fall. And you're moving like your ribs are botherin' you. You'd need a bit of force to do damage like that, driven back by a weapon, or a fist."

"There was a fight," Athos could not deny the truth of the matter. "Someone tried to kill me. But Aramis had no hand in it."

"Someone _tried to kill you_?"

Porthos' voice was generally loud. He took joy in life and the company of his fellows and didn't much care who knew about it. His booming laugh, blunt wisdom and good hearted humour were a constant feature of garrison life. When he was angry or startled the volume rose incrementally and right now he was both.

"Porthos." Athos tipped his head meaningfully.

Porthos turned around slowly, already knowing what he would find. True enough Aramis was standing behind him, his face pale as he took in the mottled damage to Athos' torso and his expression was slack with shock as he tried to process what he had just overheard.

"Someone tried to kill you?" Aramis repeated in an odd tone.

"As you see they did not." Athos looked awkward.

"Yeah well, you'll catch your death if you stand around like that much longer." Porthos was the first to recover.

He opened his press and pulled out a shirt and his blue padded doublet. They'd both be a bit on the large size for Athos but the doublet could be cinched in at the back to make a reasonable fit. And, although neither of them had ever spoken of it, Porthos and Aramis both knew Athos found comfort in borrowing their clothes when he was sick or hurting. Whether it was the simple kindness of the act or sense of safety it provided it didn't matter. It was enough that they could do this small thing for a man who asked for so little.

"Thank you." Athos inclined his head in gratitude, as he accepted the clothes.

He tried not to wince as he pulled the shirt over his head. None too successfully, if the way Porthos was suddenly there help thread his arms carefully through the sleeves of the doublet and proceeded to buckle it in place so he would not have to stretch around was any indication.

"When did you last eat?" Aramis' voice asked without inflection.

"In the early days of our acquaintance you used to ask merely if I _had_ eaten." Athos glanced swiftly at him, and then looked away, as if unsure how the small overture of friendship would be received.

"That was before I realised you wielded logic like a deadly weapon," Aramis' spoke levelly. To be fair it hadn't taken him _that _long to work out that the answer to any question phrased that way would always be 'yes' irrespective of how _long _it had been since Athos' last meal. And in his defence Athos had only had to pass out once for him to work it out. He tipped his head on one side, as his eyes softened slightly. "And how little you care for your own welfare."

"My Valet saw the flames. His wife brought us food and wine," Athos stated. "D'Artagnan was almost as persistent as the two of you in ensuring that I ate."

"Hold on," Porthos narrowed his eyes. "Flames?"

"My wife tried to kill me. She set the house ablaze intending that I should die within it. She would have succeeded too, if d'Artagnan had not returned and pulled me from the burning building." Athos could not look at either of them as he said it.

"I thought you said your wife was dead?" Aramis straightened up.

"I told you what I believed to be true." Athos agreed.

* * *

It had been in the sweltering heat of mid-summer three years earlier that they had found out. It was supposed to be a have been a straightforward mission. The sort of errand one man might easily accomplish in a couple of days. Since it was not a matter of national importance, great secrecy, or even any particular urgently, Treville had taken the opportunity to dispatch a couple of new recruits, Girard and Babin, under Athos' command by way of a training exercise. He had decided that sending Aramis and Porthos as well would only encourage mischief. Looking at their anxious expressions as they stood on the other side of his desk, he was regretting that now.

"They oughta have been back by now," Porthos worried. "Something's gone wrong."

"If we press the horses we can cover their route in a day. Athos would not have left the road unless there was some dire necessity." Aramis put in.

"And if he had to, he'd have left us a marker," Porthos added. "Something so we can track 'em."

"Alright," Treville agreed. If anyone could find Athos, and the admittedly inexperienced and untested young recruits, it would be these two. But he wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. "Take Roland and Bernard with you. If they ran into trouble, it may find you as well."

As the sun rose in the sky, already sending trickles of sweat down the back of their leathers, they made their preparations as swiftly as possible, readying the horses and collecting supplies. Porthos didn't comment when Aramis stowed an extra couple of muskets, but his face fell when he caught him slipping a bottle of laudanum into his saddlebag.

"You think we're gonna need that?" He asked with dismay.

"More than likely it won't turn out to be anything," Aramis assured him, as he carried on checking the various bags and straps. "They could be delayed for all manner of reasons. Perhaps a horse went lame, or a bridge went out. I'm just being prepared. I packed this too."

Porthos grinned as Aramis held up a large pot of the white lotion he used to stop Athos' pale skin burning in the sun. He told himself he was worrying too much. Everything would be fine and they would all be back, home and safe, before they knew it.

"Although," Aramis put a foot in his stirrup and hopped up, gathering up his reins as he turned to look at Porthos with a rueful face. "If this delay is the result of some ridiculous error on the part of Girard or Babin, I fear it may have tested even our dear Athos' remarkable patience."

"I got that covered," Porthos grinned at him, as he mounted in his turn. "I packed wine."

They rode at a steady canter, fast enough to cover the ground swiftly, not so fast as to leave the horses spent. The steady thud of the horses' hooves against the earth calmed some of Porthos' anxiety as now at least they were doing something, rather than just cooling their heels in the garrison as their worry mounted. It was almost mid-day when Aramis raised a hand to bring them to a halt.

"You see somethin'?"

Porthos stood up in his stirrups to watch as Aramis vaulted off his horse and crossed to the side of the road to pick something up. His face visibly paled as he held it so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Without a word he came to Porthos' side and silently offered it up.

Athos' pauldron, the straps cut off cleanly, as if done by a blade.

"You think that he left this for us?" Porthos asked, trying to ignore the fear tightening his chest, as he turned it over in his hands. "Or that someone cut it off 'im?"

"I don't know," Aramis looked away, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he tried to gather his emotions. "There are tracks leading this way, several horses, not very old."

"Well then," Porthos determined to be positive. "What are we waiting for?"

They slowed their pace as they travelled through the woods, cautious as to what they might find ahead. The first thing they came across was a small shack being guarded by two men in black capes with a small group of horses tethered behind.

"There's Athos' horse," Porthos observed. "And Girard and Babin's behind. That makes at least three others. Two here, so where's the other one?"

"They're Spanish," Aramis caught a snatch of conversation on the wind. "What business would they have here?"

"Can you hear what they are saying?" Roland asked.

"Only the important bits," Aramis flashed him a feral grin. "Prisoners."

The two guards were swiftly and silently despatched. A single kick from Porthos made short work of the door lock. In the dappled sunlight inside the shack Girard and Babin sat up blinking slightly as they recognised their rescuers. Roland and Porthos set about untying their bonds, Bernard stood guard and Aramis ran back to the horses to fetch some water.

"Easy," He held up the water skin, placing one hand behind the blond head so Babin could drink. "Not too fast."

"It was our fault," Babin choked out, looking at him through anguished eyes. "He was protecting us."

"Athos?" Aramis' heart skipped a beat.

"They wouldn't believe us," Girard spoke up from across the room where Roland was tending to him. "We tried to tell them we had nothing of any importance. They thought it was a trick. They said all musketeers were spies for the King. They were determined to get to the truth of things."

"He told them that he was in command," Babin added. "That we knew nothing. And then they took him away."

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a loaded look. Athos would have realised that any delay would bring others looking. In order to survive all they needed to do was stay alive long enough to be rescued. And it would be exactly like him to place himself in the line of fire to spare those under his command. No matter what the cost.

"This is why we shouldn't let him go off by 'imself." Porthos muttered.

"Babin." Aramis put a hand on each side of the younger man's face, helping him to focus. "Where is Athos? Where did they take him?"

When all Girard could do was turn rather green and raise a trembling hand in the direction of the woods, Aramis dreaded that they would find Athos dead. He was afraid to look at Porthos in case he saw his own concern mirrored in his eyes. Memories of Athos, the twinkle in his eye when he was pretending not to be amused by Aramis' antics, his wry humour proving Aramis with an anchor in times of extreme stress or danger, the gentle brush of his lips across Armais' forehead when he was at his lowest ebb, flooded his mind. Weapons at the ready they made their way silently through the trees to a small clearing. Beside him Porthos swore softly in a language Aramis didn't recognise.

"How's he supposed to answer any of their bloody questions if he's dead?" Porthos hissed. "Tell me that, eh?"

Athos was lying, spread-eagled on his back, stripped to his braies, hands and feet tied to wooden posts. Even from this distance, Aramis could the see that his usually pale skin had turned a painful dark red where it had been burnt by the unrelenting sun. The missing Spaniard was leaning over him, spitting out his questions. When Athos turned his face away to avoid answering, the man's foot drew back to kick him viciously in the ribs.

He was dead before his foot could connect.

Scrambling forward Aramis dropped to his knees besides Athos' prone body, trusting to Porthos and Roland to untie his bonds.

"Athos?" Aramis hesitated for a moment to find a place where he could touch Athos without causing him further pain, before laying a gentle hand on the sweat soaked curls. "Athos, my brother, can you hear me?"

Heavy lidded eyes opened to mere slits, the habitual bright blue of Athos' eyes dull and unfocused.

"'Mis?" He rasped.

"Right here," Aramis grinned broadly in his relief. "Porthos is here too and Roland and Bernard. And our Spanish friends won't be bothering anyone anymore."

"Athos?" Porthos dropped down on the other side, slipping a hand under his head and lifting a water skin to his blistered lips, his smile growing as Athos managed a few sips. "That's the way."

"I'll need the laudanum." Aramis said quietly.

"That bad?" Porthos worried.

"They didn't get a chance to turn him over, that may yet save his life," Aramis said baldly. As it was it would be a battle to keep his fever down, to stop him spending all his strength in shaking and vomiting and trying to keep his skin from cracking and bleeding and gathering infection as it tried to heal. "But he's in no state to travel."

"Righto then, I'll tell Roland and Bernard to take the others back to Paris and let Treville know that you and me will be staying to take care of Athos until he's fit," Porthos decided, casting a fond look at the man between them hovering on the edge of awareness. "You stay with 'im, I'll get that laudanum."

After Aramis had coaxed Athos to swallow a little of the powerful painkiller, they made a stretcher out of a blanket and, moving Athos as little as possible, they carefully slid it beneath him. Then each of them picked up two corners and carried him, suspended in the soft wool towards the river bank and straight into the shallows. With Aramis kneeling down in the water to support his head in his lap, they lowered him into the cooling water. At first Athos made small sounds of distress as the current slapped against his abused skin, but in short order he began to relax into its soothing embrace.

"There now that's better isn't it?" Aramis murmured, cupping a hand to trickle a little water across his sun burnt face. "You rest now. We'll keep watch."

For the next few hours Aramis and Porthos took turns to sit with Athos in the cooling water, or slather him in the white lotion in an attempt to draw the heat from his skin and stop it cracking and bleeding as it healed. Despite their best efforts Athos' fever steadily built. As he drifted in and out of awareness, they rested his head in their laps to stop him from thrashing about and causing himself further pain, when he vomited thin yellow bile, they rolled him gently onto his side and made sure he did not choke, only to cast helpless glances at each other when he began to call out for his brother or the woman from his nightmares.

"Anne, _Anne_," He cried helplessly, trying to reach out to her, as if his mind had conjured her up in an apparition. "Please. I need you."

"Hush," Aramis gathered his head against his chest and hugged him carefully. "You have to rest."

"No, No, please, it's been so long," Athos struggled weakly. "You can't keep her from me. You can't keep us apart. I swore nothing would ever come between us. She's my wife. My _wife_ I tell you."

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a startled look, even as Athos collapsed back in a spent heap, breathing heavily.

"It could be the laudanum," Porthos whispered. "Or the fever speaking, either of them are enough to give a man strange dreams."

"Or he could actually _be _married." Aramis hissed back cutting to the chase.

Porthos took a moment to consider that. Looking down at Athos' flushed and painfully sunburnt features, as his eyelids fluttered uneasily, he stroked his head tenderly.

"Nah, I don't see it."

"What, you don't think our dear Athos is husband material?" Aramis enquired. "He is quite handsome; he has excellent manners, a good education and all his own teeth. Granted his dress sense is somewhat lacking but that could easily be addressed with a feather or two, or a few more ruffles."

"There's no way Athos could have had a wife tucked away these last few years and us know nothing about it," Porthos corrected. "Not with all the time we spend with 'im."

"Perhaps he married young, over their parents' objections. He was disinherited and she was forced to return to her family home until he can save enough to keep her in the manner she deserves." Aramis pontificated.

"That _would _explain why he lives so frugally and never so much as looks at a woman." Porthos nodded sagely.

"So, you think I'm right?" Aramis was startled.

"No, you idiot, I think you've been reading too many of them trashy romance novels." Porthos rolled his eyes at him. "Although, it's plain as day he still loves this Anne, whoever she is."

After some days Aramis decided that Athos was well enough to travel, in a cart, under cover, and in easy stages and _No, Athos, you're not fit to ride_. As they packed up their impromptu campsite Aramis fondly looked at the small volume he had purchased in the nearby town, thinking of the evenings reading aloud to distract Athos from his pain until the sun set. Across from him Porthos carefully packed up their remaining provisions, strawberries, duck pate and soft brie, all Athos' favourite foods, chosen to tempt the patient to eat.

"Are you sure he's ready for this?" Porthos cast a worried glance to where Athos, dressed simply in a loose linen shirt and his braies, was resting under the shade of a tree. "He's been awful quiet even for 'im. I don't like it."

"He's had a hard time of things," Aramis sighed. Athos had been captured, tortured, and then left almost entirely dependent on his friends as his skin painfully cracked and bled as he healed. They had all had to adjust to a man who prided himself on his self-control, being quite so utterly helpless. "He just needs time."

"Naw that ain't it, he's brooding about something," Porthos shook his head decisively. "And I ain't spent the last few days taking care of 'im to let 'im wallow in that now."

Athos looked up as they approached, looking oddly vulnerable and rather younger than his years, without his leathers. Careful not to crowd him too much, Aramis sat to the left of him and Porthos settled by his knees, giving him an encouraging smile.

"Before we return to Paris, I believe I owe you something of an explanation," Athos spoke quietly.

"You don't _'ave_ to tell us anythin'. Fever does strange things to the strongest of men," Porthos assured him. "Unless you want to, if you want to then we'll listen and we won't judge, ain't that right Armais?"

"What he said." Aramis smiled fondly.

A small smile quirked at the edge of Athos' mouth, even as his eyes grew damp, he tipped his head back slightly against the tree trunk, blinking away the tears, as his friends waited patiently for him to compose himself. He had grown to trust these men as brothers in arms, putting his life in their hands without a second thought, he had permitted himself to enjoy their company as a balm to his wounded soul, he had admired them for their numerous good qualities and enduring faith in humanity. But he had not expected to be the recipient of such tender, _loving_, care as he had experienced these last few days, not ever again.

Much as he might wish to he could not deny them this much.

"I was briefly married. Anne was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, I thought our love would last forever," He sucked in a ragged breath and was dimly aware of Porthos' hand squeezing his leg and Aramis' gripping his shoulder. "She died, two years ago now. And I must find a way to live in this world without her."

"That's gotta be hard," Porthos sympathised. "But you don't have to do it alone, you've got us now."

"And I think you'll find we are remarkably difficult to shake off." Aramis informed him brightly.

* * *

"For these last five years I have imagined that the woman I love was gone from this world. From the moment I set foot in that house I felt her presence. I thought I was going mad. But she is alive." Athos revealed now.

"And she tried to kill you? That's hardly a fairytale reunion." Aramis observed.

"It was her revenge," Athos sucked in a breath. "There is something I have never had the courage to tell you. Please understand it does not reflect on the strength of your friendship, merely on my own failings."

"Athos, say what you need to," Porthos sought to reassure. "We're your brothers. We ain't gonna give up on you, no matter what."

"Aramis?" Athos looked at him, clearly braced for rejection.

The note of uncertainty in his tone hit Aramis like a musket ball to the gut. His angry, petty, words had done this to a man who had shown him nothing but loyalty and it made him sick to his stomach. In his mind's eye he saw again the look of shocked hurt on Athos' face as he had taken his leave of him at la Fere.

"_Au revoir, Monsieur le Comte," He bowed low, keeping his head up, as was his custom, to fix Athos with a look of disdain. "Or should that be adieu?" _

"You almost died," Aramis met Athos' eyes, feeling himself well up with emotion. "That tends to bring me to my senses rather swiftly."

The steady weight of Athos' hand on his shoulder and the forgiveness in his eyes was an immense comfort. Albeit one he felt rather ill-deserved just now. He vowed that he would never give this man another reason to doubt his love or loyalty.

"So, when d'Artagnan arrived, she just left?" Porthos cut in.

"For now," Athos agreed. "She has taken care all these years that I had no idea that she was still living. That she would finally show herself can only mean that she intends to finish what she started. She will not stop until I am dead."

"She'll have to go through us first." Porthos declared stoutly.

"She is a dangerous woman," Athos sighed, since he had come this far he might as well bare his soul utterly. "She lied and tricked her way into my life and then she murdered my brother when he found out of the truth of it. I will not lose you also."

"I think we may already have made enemies of her. Aramis realised. "When we thwarted her plan to have you executed at the Chatelet."

"You think Anne was behind that?" Athos straightened up.

"We never could work out exactly why, of all the regiment, you were singled out and we all know his Eminence has a weakness for beauty." Aramis shrugged apologetically. "A word in his ear in the throes of passion might be all it took."

"Oi," Porthos hissed, embarrassed on Athos' behalf at the insinuation that the Cardinal might have taken her as his mistress. "While they both live she's still his _wife_."

"She is a murderess who seduced the man entrusted with her execution to save her own skin," Athos re-joined, turning to look out of the window so that the stiff set of his shoulders was the only sign of his hurt. "No doubt she has shared many other beds to achieve her goals."

Behind his back Porthos stilled, his eyes going impossibly wide, before his face cleared of all expression as Athos turned around.

"You were going to tell me about Bonnaire?" He was all business again.

"Here," Deftly Aramis plucked his ever present jar of salve out of his pocket and tossed it at Athos, who easily caught it on handed. "Put some of that on that burn you think I haven't noticed on your head and then meet us in the courtyard. I told d'Artagnan to rustle us up some wine. When we tell you what happened you're going to need it."

Halfway down the stairs he gripped Porthos by the arm and turned him to face him.

"Alright, what was you couldn't say in front of Athos?"

"It might be nothing," Porthos made a face. "That night I stayed with 'im after Vadim, young d'Artagnan had a posy of forget-me-knots in his room, from an admirer. Just like those pressed flowers in Athos' locket."

"Bu it could be something," Aramis grave expression did not set Porthos mind at rest. "D'Artagnan was just asking my advice about the woman he met at the Inn on the way to Paris. Apparently she called at the Bonicieux's under the guise of ordering a dress."

"The one who left a bloody knife in his pillow, to frame him for the murder she committed? That's romantic," Porthos scoffed. "Why would she think he wanted to see her again?"

"He did seem quite taken with her. That night at the tavern he said she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and they had 'unfinished business'." Aramis reminded. "And remember his mysterious saviour? The one who killed those Red Guards in the ally?"

"The one we figured was an agent of the Cardinal?" Porthos recalled. "You think that was a woman?"

"It takes skill not strength to kill like that. A woman could easily do it and we know she had killed before _and_ blamed it on him. Maybe she felt she owed him something?"

"You're only saying that because it's a woman and you hate to think badly of the fairer sex," Porthos pointed out. "Maybe _she_ wanted _him _to owe her?"

"You do realise how preposterous this all sounds?" Aramis observed. "We're weaving a Machiavellian plot based on a small blue flower that can be bought at any market. It _is_ a little far-fetched."

"You're not wrong there," Porthos admitted, with a wry grin. "Even with our luck, what are the odds that d'Artagnan's mistress and Athos' wife could ever be one in the same?"

* * *

AN – Since I did not want to write the exact same thing twice the slight references to what happened between Athos and d'Artagnan at le Fere are taken from my story "Redemption"

Also, in French _Au Revoir_ means till I see you again (Voir being the verb to see) Adieu means see you with God (Dieu being God) and is used when you don't expect to see the person for a long time (if ever).

Next up – Marsac!


	11. Chapter 11

AN – My main motivation for this one was d'Artganan's comment _it's a question of loyalty_ plus a few plot points to tie in, (ahem, d'Artagnan _again_). And the chapters just keep getting longer! Hope you continue to enjoy.

* * *

So, Marsac was finally back.

In the days after Savoy, when he was still recovering from his injuries, Aramis had startled upright every time the door had opened, expecting that his friend had come to his senses and returned. That first year he had imagined he saw him everywhere, a flash of a cloak in the crowd, a familiar shock of hair glimpsed in the market. As the years passed he had wondered where he was and what he might be doing, whether he had remained in France and finally if he was even still living. Although, he never entirely lost hope that he would see Marsac again someday.

The assassin part was something of a surprise.

"_Marsac_?" Porthos' fists instinctively clenched at mention of the man who had haunted his friend's nightmares for the last five years. "I thought he'd be dead by now. What's he thinking of coming back to Paris?"

"Perhaps, we could discuss this elsewhere?" Aramis suggested, with a pained wince, as he looked around the courtyard to see if they had been overheard.

"Where is Marsac now?" Athos asked tonelessly.

"He's at the Bonacieux's," d'Artagnan spoke up. "We asked Constance to take him in. She doesn't know who he really is. Aramis told her he was a cabinet maker."

"Have a lot of sword callouses do they, your average cabinet maker?," Porthos scoffed. "First it's 'im with the wet grass and now you? S'a good job you're both better at fighting than you are at lying."

"On the contrary, first Treville, then us, now Madame Bonacieux, that suggests a certain proficiency," Athos said stiffly as he settled his hat firmly on his head. "Shall we go?"

Porthos and d'Aratgnan exchanged a troubled glance and wisely fell into step beside each other, leaving Athos and Aramis to bring up the rear. The two men walked in silence for several paces. When Aramis finally opened his mouth to speak, Athos did not even glance at him as he cut him off.

"You took it upon yourself to harbour an assassin and a deserter and then lied about it. Clearly if d'Artagnan had not spoken up you would have continued to lie to me. There is nothing more to be said."

Aramis took his hat off and rubbed a hand through his hair as he tried to think of a way to make this right. He had expected Athos to be angry with him for the risk he was running in hiding Marsac from the authorities but not this distant formality.

"Look if you are worried that I involved the boy, I had no choice, he happened upon us at the Palace. If it comes to it I'll see no blame is attached to him." He had rather hoped Athos knew him well enough to understand that. And as he watched Athos' jaw clench he realised that wasn't what was bothering him. He tried again. "Are you angry that I didn't tell Madame Bonacieux the truth about Marsac?"

"I am hardly in a position to judge what you do or do not choose to disclose given recent events." Athos' tone was clipped.

Aramis stopped dead. He had not even considered that Athos might link their recent quarrel at la Fere with his present actions. Although, perhaps he should have, Athos was a master at finding ways to punish himself. Athos had walked on a few paces before he noticed Aramis was no longer beside him and turned to see him, standing stock still in the middle of the street.

"We should catch up with the others."

"When I joined the regiment Marsac was my first friend. We did everything together. We were like brothers, I owe him my life," Aramis spread his arms helplessly as he tried to explain. "This has nothing to do with you and I."

"So it would seem." Athos' tone was stiff with what others might have seen as formality but Aramis recognised as hurt.

"That's not what I meant," Aramis' frustration grew, as he struggled to explain his actions. He refused to listen to the niggling part of his brain that said that he _should_ have handled this better. "What did you expect me to do?"

"You could have come to _me_," Athos' tone was brittle with emotion, even as he closed the space between them until they were nose to nose. "Or do you have so little faith in me now that you think I would arrest a man so close to your heart without fair hearing?"

_Oh_. Aramis felt like all the breath had fled from his body. Momentarily unable to speak he slid his hat back on and drew himself up to attention, hands at his side, eyes straight ahead, heels together, offering Athos a gesture of respect that they both knew he rarely afforded to anyone. Even on the most formal of occasions, there was always a glint in his eye, a tilt to his hat or a flourish to his bow that was uniquely Aramis.

"I apologise, you are right, of course," Aramis swallowed hard, as he blinked fiercely. No matter what he felt he owed Marsac it could never compare to the depth of his connection with Athos. He desperately hoped his rash actions had not irreparably damaged their friendship. "Marsac might have been my first friend in the regiment but you and Porthos have been the best and truest friends I have ever known. As musketeers we are sworn to defend the King. I didn't want either of you to be burdened by the mistakes of my past."

The dampness in Aramis' eyes startled Athos. For all that the sharp shooter appeared to wear his heart on his sleeve, in five years Athos could count on one hand the number of times he had seen him actually moved to tears, unless in the throes of some night terror. With a wash of shame Athos realised just how much Marsac's return had thrown Aramis off kilter.

That would need careful watching.

"You do realise that your actions are entirely contrary to the advice you wished me to heed to at le Fere," Athos observed quirking a brow. "I'm sure you recall."

"You know full well I've never been any good at following my own advice," Aramis admitted sheepishly, around a slightly broken laugh.

Athos clapped him firmly on the arm, letting his hand rest there longer than was strictly necessary as he squeezed tightly in a silent gesture of forgiveness and reassurance. Aramis ducked his head swiftly to hide his reaction, his emotions too raw and too close to the surface to be sure of maintaining both eye contact and his composure just at present.

"Do you think there might be some validity to Marsac's claims?" Athos looked politely away, giving him a moment to gather himself.

Aramis pinched the top of his nose and took a ragged breath to regain his composure before meeting Athos' gaze, his expression grave.

"I don't know. He believes it, enough to risk his life by coming back here."

"Aramis," Athos knew he had to choose his words carefully. He knew from experience that Aramis had something of a blind spot when it came to Marsac. It had occurred to him to wonder if his own memories of Thomas were similarly selective. "Five years is a long time. He may not be the same man you remember."

Aramis had long since understood that Athos had little time for Marsac. Being Athos he had never fully explained his reasons, although Aramis was well aware that it had less to do with him being a deserter and far more to do with all the ways in which he felt Marsac had failed Aramis. It had always been an odd sort of comfort.

"I don't suppose it will do me any good to ask you not to punch him?" Aramis was resigned.

"I give you my word I will hold off until after we have been properly introduced." Athos assured him.

* * *

Marsac's eyes widened in alarm as Aramis brought him down to the Bonacieux's dining room to find something of a reception committee.

"What's this?" He turned accusing eyes on Aramis, as he was pushed into a chair. He had cared little about the boy. Whatever ties Aramis had to some wet behind the ears recruit could surely not compete with their brotherhood. But these two unknown musketeers had no loyalty to him and a duty to secure his arrest. He tried to stand up. "Can you so easily betray me?"

"It's not like that, these men are my friends," Aramis put a hand on his shoulder, pressing him down again. "If we are to prove the truth of your claims we'll need some help."

"But good to know you have so little faith in a man you call brother." A voice said acerbically.

"_Porthos_," Aramis chided with an easy familiarity that set Marsac's teeth on edge. "Marsac, this is Porthos, whose uncommon sense is matched only by his skill at hand to hand and seated over there is Athos, a brilliant swordsman and the finest soldier in the regiment."

"Is that so?" Marsac sniffed. "Before Savoy I was counted one of the best in the regiment."

"Clearly standards have improved since then." Athos retorted.

Porthos snorted a laugh.

"Perhaps we should focus on the matter in hand," Aramis quickly stepped in. "If Marsac is right then time is of the essence. As soon as the treaty is signed the Duke will return to Savoy and be out of our reach."

"_If_ I'm right?" Marsac looked put out. "Time was my word would have been enough for you."

"I'm not saying you're wrong," Aramis defended himself. "But if we plan to topple a Duke and quite probably start a war in the process I'm not the only one you'll need to convince."

"So, best start with us, eh?" Porthos put in. "Then we'll see how things go."

"Because, at present, the only thing standing between you and the gallows." Athos added. "Is us."

"Gallows?" Constance paused in the doorway. "Why would a respectable cabinet maker be facing the gallows?"

* * *

"Well that went well," d'Artagnan observed sarcastically as they exited the cellars where Marsac had been interrogating the former soldier of the Duke of Savoy. "Our only lead and because you can't control your temper he's dead."

"You wouldn't understand," Marsac dismissed him. "I don't expect you've ever even been in a battle."

"He ain't run away from one either," Porthos defended d'Artagnan. "This one's much more likely to run headlong into danger."

"Gaudet? Really? Still?" d'Artagnan tipped his head at him.

When Aramis swept off his hat and ran a frustrated hand through his hair, before he began pacing back and forth, completely unaware that he was twisting his beloved head gear quite out of shape, they were all brought swiftly back to the present.

"So, what do we do now?" Porthos tried to move things along.

Instantly, Aramis stopped pacing and looked to Athos for guidance, like a compass seeking north. Out of the corner of his eye Porthos caught the way Marsac stiffened at the sight. When Athos simply tilted his head and Aramis immediately took a deep breath and settled down, stilling his hands, straightening out his hat, setting it back on his head and even managing a rueful smile at his actions, Marsac looked like he wanted to punch someone, probably Athos.

"I say we go and confront Treville." He said belligerently.

"No-one asked your opinion." Porthos scowled at him.

"If you think I am going to confront one of the finest men I have ever known solely on the words of a dead man and a deserter then you are delusional," Athos favoured Marsac with a look of disdain. Then he glanced at Aramis, letting some of his concern show. "But I agree the matter bears further investigation."

"So, does this mean Athos won't turn Marsac over to the authorities?" d'Artagnan enquired softly of Porthos as the group began to make their way down the street. Ahead of them Marsac had insinuated himself between Athos and Aramis as he continued to try and argue his case.

"That was never gonna happen," Porthos surprised him. "He wouldn't do that to Aramis. He carries enough guilt about Savoy as it is, Athos would cut off his sword arm rather than add to it. When this is over we'll put 'im on a road out of Paris and if he has any sense that'll be the last we see of 'im."

"It's that simple?" d'Artagnan frowned. "What about the fact that he's a deserter and assassin?"

"Some bloke in the Duke of Savoy's entourage ain't reason enough to make Aramis watch his friend hang," Porthos was blunt. "And battle's no easy thing. Watching friends die. Men being killed in the worst of ways, even the best of soldiers can lose their reason. We've all seen it. It's a hard thing to hang a man for a moment of madness."

"Are you sure Athos sees it like that?" D'Artagnan asked carefully. "He doesn't seem to like Marsac very much."

"Not because he's a deserter. Not as such." Porthos said cryptically.

"Oh?" d'Artagnan prompted.

Porthos cast a concerned glance at the three figures walking ahead. Marsac was gesticulating as he tried to make some point or other. But Athos had somehow slipped around the back of him so he was now walking shoulder to shoulder with Aramis. Porthos breathed a little easier at the sight.

"Thing is," He looked over at d'Artagnan. "Marsac's the main reason Aramis never got over Savoy. Five years he's spent wondering if Marsac was dead or alive, blaming himself for not doing more to help him even though he was half out of his own mind with blood loss. Aramis tortures himself with the belief he didn't do enough for Marsac when Marsac was the one who buggered off and left 'im to die."

"Aramis told me he was wounded," d'Artagnan acknowledged. "But he claimed Marsac saved his life."

"Yeah?" Porthos scowled. "Did he tell you he was wearing little more than his chemise at the time and there was snow in the ground? It was a miracle he survived. What he needed a warm fire, some hot soup, and a decent blanket or two, not twenty dead musketeers for company."

"I didn't know," d'Artagnan's expression darkened, as he thought about Aramis abandoned in the woods, every minute hating himself for surviving when all around him had died. "Is that why he's so eager to suck every last second out of life?"

"You ain't as green as you look are you?" The affection in Porthos' tone took the sting out of his words. "He was pretty low for a while after it happened. Between us Athos and I kept him going. Never realised we were creating a monster."

"He does keep things interesting," d'Artagnan acknowledged with a smile, recalling Aramis' many liaisons dangereuses, his utter fearlessness in the face of even quite ridiculous odds and his absolute lack of self-preservation when it came to righting a wrong. "But surely he can't really believe the Captain would have any part in this?"

"I don't rightly know what's going on in that head of his," Porthos sighed. "Marsac has got 'im all mixed up. It's a right mess."

* * *

To say that Marsac was displeased at the continuation of his house arrest was something of an understatement. It was bad enough that that these strangers were treating him like a criminal rather than a soldier. But that Aramis submitted without a murmur to the whim of this Athos truly rankled.

"Aramis was a musketeer long before you," He protested. "What right do you have to give him orders?"

"Aramis has never hesitated to speak up if he's not happy," Athos barely spared him a glance. He did not care to add that, he could only think of a handful of occasions where Aramis had felt it necessary to suggest an alternative solution. "No soldier can be led where he does not wish to follow."

"Except _I_ seem to be coming with you," Marsac scowled tightly. "Rather against my will."

"That's because you aren't a soldier, you're our prisoner," d'Artagnan reminded him smugly.

"Or have you forgotten the whole deserter rubbish assassin thing?" Porthos put in helpfully.

"You said there was no 'we' here," Marsac turned his ire on Porthos. "But you seem happy enough to let Athos speak for you. What kind of soldier doesn't know his own mind?"

"The kind that values loyalty," Porthos told him. "And fine leadership. Not that I'd expect you to understand that. You're much more every man for 'imself."

Porthos didn't bother to tell him that he and Athos had already said everything that needed to be said in a single glance. They understood Aramis' need for the truth. But having Marsac around was dragging him down. Keeping the two men apart, even for a while, would help Aramis think more clearly.

"You have no idea what you are talking about," Marsac sneered. "Aramis was my brother long before he was yours."

"And now he's had five years to get used to you not being around," d'Artagnan pointed out with an insincere smile. "I think he'll manage."

After his last warning from Porthos the move was more instinct than judgement, even so Marsac didn't get more than two steps towards d'Artagnan before Athos' sword was out of its scabbard and barring his way.

"The only reason you are still here and not in the Chatelet awaiting execution for desertion and murder is that Aramis cares for you," Athos' tone was deadly. "But make no mistake, we do not, so that is the only license we will afford you. I would advise you not to presume too much on our good nature."

"Lay one finger on me and Aramis will never forgive you." Marsac sneered.

Athos and Porthos exchanged a lightening swift glance, which had d'Artagnan prudently stepping back out of range just before Athos' fist flashed out, snapping Marsac's head back, causing blood to blossom from his nose, and then Porthos surged forward, backing Marsace up against the nearest wall, one hand pulling his head back by his hair, one arm pressed _hard _against his throat so that Marsac flailed slightly and made satisfying little choking sounds.

"You're lucky we don't kill you right now and leave your body in the gutter where it belongs," Porthos hissed. "Head wounds, they bleed like the devil, weakening a body. What with snow on the ground and 'im barely dressed and hands shaking too much to build a fire, or hunt out a scrap of food, he had nothing but his will and courage to keep 'im going. Do you know how long it took for help to come? Do you have any idea how close he came to freezing to death?"

"Um, I don't think he can breathe?" d'Artagnan offered mildly. He shrugged. "I wouldn't bother to mention it, but it does make it a little harder to speak."

Porthos eased up on the pressure on Marsac's wind pipe, but tightened his fingers in his hair pulling his head a little further back.

"I had just watched twenty of my brothers be slaughtered," Marsac protested as he desperately tried to defend himself. "I wasn't thinking straight. I thought he'd be safe."

"Five years on and Savoy still haunts Aramis' nightmares," Athos tone was deadly. "Two days he spent wandering helplessly among those twenty broken bodies before help arrived. He still can't sleep when it snows without thinking he's surrounded by corpses. That wasn't the Duke's doing or Treville's. You alone did that to him when you abandoned him to his fate. And _that_ I will never forgive or forget."

"Do you think _my _life has been easy these last five years?" Marsac challenged. "Always sleeping with one eye open? Never knowing where your next meal is coming from? Being a musket for hire to thieves and scoundrels, having to do things that make me sick to my stomach just to survive? You have no right to judge me."

"Not every man sells himself for a price," Porthos objected. "You think you are the only one who ever had a hard time of things? There's always a choice, true courage comes from making the right ones."

"And if you think you can convince Aramis to join in your crusade for revenge," Athos eyed him scornfully. "Then you know nothing about him."

* * *

When Aramis returned from the cemetery his friends simply fell into step beside him, silently making it clear that they had no intention of leaving his side as they accompanied him to his lodgings. Once they entered he found himself led to a chair. D'Artagnan set to stoking up the fire, Porthos removed his weapons and wet doublet like the most attentive of valets. Athos got down on his knees and began removing his damp boots and sodden stockings, accepting the cloth that d'Artagnan passed him to carefully dry between the wet toes to avoid foot rot.

Aramis closed his eyes as he thanked God for these men. Porthos had clawed his way up in society so he never needed to be at the beck and call of any man, but he saw taking care of his needs as a privilege. Athos had grown up being waited on hand and foot and yet would humble himself on his knees to take care of him without a second thought. Even d'Artagnan, a young man with as much pride as Aramis had ever seen, was running around like an errand boy to somehow produce an entire crate of wine with a beaming smile.

"Porthos tells me you almost killed the Duke of Savoy." Aramis quirked a brow at Athos.

"He exaggerates somewhat."

"So, you _didn't_ put him on the defensive and force him back across the throne room to land in a quivering heap at the King's feet?" Aramis challenged fondly.

Athos said nothing, but as he carefully dried Aramis' other foot his lips quirked slightly at the memory.

"Fought like a demon he did," Porthos' voice was warm with affection. "Even the thought that the Duke might have had something to do with the massacre put murder in his heart, Treville was not best pleased."

"Will things be alright?" d'Artagnan asked carefully, as he passed Aramis a glass of wine. "Between you and the Captain?"

"We made our peace," Aramis acknowledged, as he savoured the warming properties of the particularly good merlot. "I always knew there had to be a reason behind his actions. Treville is a born soldier. He can be ruthless when the security of the realm is at stake. But he would never have done such a thing for pure avarice."

"There is one thing I don't understand," d'Artagnan mused, as he filled his own glass. "The Duchess has spent her married life betraying her husband by acting as a spy for France. How can she do that when she also says she loves him?"

"They have a child together," Porthos allowed. "Motherhood's a powerful bond."

"Plus the Duchess is no stranger to politics," Athos added. "More than likely she is also considering how her actions will strengthen her son's position when he comes to rule."

"Did you ever meet her before she was married?" Aramis asked Athos curiously.

"Once, when we were both much younger," Athos acknowledged, his eyes shone with amusement at the memory. "Even then she rather defied convention."

"Oh hey," Porthos perked up. "There's a story there. Go on then."

"I rather doubt that the Duchess would have connected the boy she knew then with the man I am now," Athos shrugged.

"And that wasn't what Porthos was asking," Aramis put in, as he leant forward. "You can't think you're getting out of telling it now."

Usually Athos might simply have declined to answer. But right now he would have done anything to ease the stiff set of Aramis' shoulders and banish that hollow look in his eyes. So, secretly enjoying the drama, he drew himself up and assumed his most dignified tone.

"A gentleman does not kiss and tell."

"There was kissing!" d'Artagnan whooped.

"We were mere children," Athos gave the boy a quelling look. He topped up his own glass and refilled Aramis' before regaling them with a tale of a long and boring court function, a child dressed in stiff, uncomfortable formal clothes, he and the now Duchess of Savoy had taking refuge from the stifling heat underneath the heavy tablecloths, eating bowlfuls of strawberries and exchanging confidences in their own private world out of sight and mind of the adults. "As I recall, she was the first girl I ever kissed."

"You truly are the most remarkable man." Aramis smiled fondly at him, his eyes soft with love.

"But I still don't understand," d'Artagnan spoke with the straightforwardness of youth, as he refilled his own suddenly empty glass. "How can you love someone so utterly and yet betray them?"

"Oi," Porthos kicked him sharply, when he saw Aramis flinch at the unthinking comment. "We're supposed to be making 'im feel better, yeah?"

"Mercy comes in many forms," Athos spoke quietly. "You saved Marsac from going to the gallows like a common criminal with the crowd jeering in his ears. He was able to return home to the Garrison and die like a musketeer in the arms of his brother. Plus, thanks to Treville he's buried with honour."

"I can think of worse endings." Porthos agreed stoutly.

"True," Aramis observed sadly. "Although, you'll forgive me if it takes me a little time to be grateful for being the instrument of his demise."

"We should eat, I'll fetch us something from the tavern," Athos declared abruptly. He was on his feet and out of the door before the others could react, but not before Porthos caught the unexpected sheen of tears in his eyes.

"What's eating 'im?" He worried.

"I suppose it must bring back bad memories," d'Artagnan observed, turning his wine glass around, seemingly mesmerised by the sloshing crimson liquid. Porthos made a mental note not to let him drink so much on an empty stomach in future. "Of being responsible for his wife's execution, I mean I know she didn't _actually_ die, but he was the one who ordered her taken from the house to be hung."

"Hold on, what?" Porthos hissed clutching d'Artagnan by the arm so tightly to garner his attention that the boy would wonder tomorrow where the bruises had come from. "Are you saying _Athos_ was the one who ordered his wife's execution? Not the authorities?"

"Yes, of course, that's .." d'Artagnan trailed off as he noticed Porthos' stricken expression and his face fell. "You didn't know. But he said he'd told you everything."

"Not that part," Porthos scowled. "Stands to reason though that he wouldn't leave it to the courts, Athos ain't ever been the type to make things easy for himself or shirk his responsibilities."

"And given his status as a Comte the only alternative would have been to bring her to Paris and have her tried before the King," Aramis sighed. "It would have been quite the scandal. She would have been shamed and ridiculed. It's regrettable but a woman always comes off worse in these things. A swift, private, death would have been something of a kindness. Although, I doubt she sees it that way."

"That's right," d'Artagnan blinked as the room spun slightly. "She didn't die. If he ordered her to be taken out and hung, right there and then how could she possibly still be alive?"

He felt a sudden cold shock of memory. The scars on her swan like neck. The man she loved who tried to kill her, Athos' wife sentenced to be hung but still living, his unthinking promise. The bile rose unbidden in his throat, the way his mouth filled with a wash of salt his only warning before he was empting the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

"There, there," Aramis dropped a damp cloth onto the back of his neck. "No more wine for you."

"But why isn't she dead?" d'Artagnan insisted with the doggedness of the truly drunk.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged an uncomfortable look. Neither of them wanted to shame Athos by being the one who told the boy that she had seduced the man entrusted with her execution.

"From what he said it seems like she never got as far as the noose," Porthos evaded. "One of the servants felt sorry for her and helped her escape. Athos couldn't bear to watch a woman he loved die so he was none the wiser."

"Oh," d'Artagnan's fuzzy brain was just about able to process the fact that Athos' wife, whoever she was, couldn't have any scars on her neck before he let his forehead drop onto the cool wood of the table. "That's alright then."

"Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that," Porthos scoffed kindly. "Come the morning you're going to feel like your head's about to explode."


	12. Chapter 12

AN – Thank you so much to everyone who has given such positive feedback to this story, it really does encourage me to write more, here is the longest chapter so far!

* * *

"Perhaps I should come with you? You never know when you might run into trouble." d'Artagnan surged to his feet and tried not to sound _too_ eager at the prospect of a distraction.

"Remind me again which one of us grew up around here? I think I can handle myself between the Garrison and the market," Porthos' grin told him he knew exactly what d'Artagnan was up to, as he nodded at the unopened volume which the Gascon had been so quick to abandon on the table "Besides, you've got that book to read."

As he was leaving Athos had pressed the well-worn tome on the art of warfare into his hand, _no doubt a vain attempt to keep you out of trouble in my absence _he'd said. The Gascon had initially been touched by Athos' kindness in doing all he could to further his training, even when he was drawn away on the King's business, but then he realised he would actually have to _read_ the book. D'Artagnan had a quick mind but he had always preferred action to studying.

"It's alright for you," d'Artagnan huffed. "You like to read."

"Hey," Porthos cuffed him, none too gently, across the back of the head, his usually sunny demeanour darkening into a frown. "Education ain't something to be taken for granted and there ain't no-one finer than Athos to train you. Anything he wants to teach you is worth learning."

"I know, I'm sorry," d'Artagnan was instantly contrite, shoving his hands awkwardly in his pockets and casting his eyes upward to avoid that piercing gaze as his eyes stung with the justice of Porthos' words. All his friends had been more than generous with their time and expertise. Just because this was the first time Athos had left him to his own devices was no reason to be ungrateful. "It's just .."

He hadn't expected to miss the sheer joy of sparring with Athos so much that his heart ached, or that feeling of true confidence, rather than mere bravado, that came with Athos' steady presence at his side, that quiet look of approval, rather than censure, when d'Artagnan held true to his principles, the gentle touches which said he had found somewhere he could belong and that little nod of approval, deeply prized, which said he had done exceptionally well. He already felt the lack of Athos' physical presence like a gaping wound. He did not know how he was going to bear it if something went wrong and anything happened to him.

"He'll be alright you know," Porthos' tone was kind with understanding "And back before you know it."

"You and Aramis worry about him when he's gone," d'Artagnan lifted his chin, daring the other man to deny it.

"Only 'cause he doesn't always take proper care of himself, when we ain't there to keep an eye on him," Porthos' eyes darkened with some memory, before he managed a reassuring smile. "But he's a fine solider, he shouldn't come to too much harm in a few days. And," He raised a brow. "he'll expect you to 'ave finished that book by the time he gets back."

"I'd better make a start then." D'Artagnan acknowledged with a rueful smile.

As Porthos clapped him warmly on the shoulder and left, d'Artagnan poured himself a large glass of wine and settled down to read, flicking impatiently through the first few pages, to get to the actual text. To his surprise he was quickly drawn into the practical, and sometimes more than a little unorthodox, advice on how to defeat the enemy. He was about a third of the way through and reaching out to refill his wine glass when he felt the touch of cold metal to the nape of his neck.

"I distinctly recall _somebody_ saying 'if I ever even think about drinking on an empty stomach ever again you have my permission to shoot me."_ A_ramis' voice said.

D'Artagnan grinned as Aramis stowed his musket and came around to sit across from him. His friends seemed to delight in trying to sneak up on one another. Even Athos wasn't above such antics, although he called it _useful practice for when our business requires stealth, _whilst Porthos and Aramis took an unashamedly childlike glee in the process.

In truth he was glad to see that glint of mischief back in Aramis' eyes. In the aftermath of Marsac's death he had tried to be as normal as possible but it had all been a little forced. He had been quieter than usual, sticking close to his friends and seemingly having little appetite for any of his usual romantic or adventurous pursuits. It was good to see him gradually coming back to himself.

"I've decided there are worse tortures in life than being hung over." D'Artagnan waved the book at Aramis as his friend helped himself to a glass of wine. "I mean, it's not as bad as I thought but I still don't understand why I can't just be _shown _how to fight."

Aramis gave him a measuring look and d'Artagnan had the distinct feeling he was missing something important.

"Because on the battlefield, it's not just about defeating the man standing in front of you, a soldier needs to learn to see the bigger picture," Aramis said sagely, as reached over and plucked the book out of d'Artagnan's hand and turned it back to the title page, holding it so the Gascon would actually _look_. "And for an intelligent person _that_ is an area where _you_ can be remarkably unobservant."

There on the title page, in a younger version of Athos' flowing script was his name and a date. D'Artagnan automatically did the sum in his head. His mentor had had this book since he was _sixteen._ Underneath, there was a dedication in what seemed to be an even younger hand, _To my dearest Athos, the best brother anyone could hope for, in grateful thanks for your sacrifice, Phillippe._

"I just thought he'd picked it up in that little book shop we stopped at next to the saddle makers, when he was looking for Porthos' birthday present," d'Artagnan admitted guiltily. Athos had kept so few items from his previous life at le Fere, this book must be greatly prized. "I didn't realise it was so important to him."

"I think Athos knows every word of that book by heart," Aramis smiled in memory. "He's had both Porthos and I read it. Learning ways to out think your opponent is often more valuable that being able to out shoot or outfight them, especially, when you run short on ammunition."

"You read this?" d'Artagnan teased. "But it doesn't even have a heroine!"

"I had actually read it before I met Athos, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings and it bears reading again," Aramis retorted, reminding d'Artagnan that for all his predilections for poetry, liturgical verse and romantic fiction, he was a professional solider at heart. "And you were the one who wanted to borrow _The Merchant's Daughter _ so you could discover ways to woo the delightful Madame Bonacieux."

"I said that wasn't why, she's a marrined woman," d'Artagnan protested hotly. At Aramis' arched look he sighed. "It's just, she's so different to the farm girls I knew in Gascony. I wanted to learn more about her world."

"Of course."

Aramis tactfully did not mention that d'Artagnan had yet to return the book. Secretly, despite Porthos' advice to mind his own business, he was rather keen to play matchmaker for his young friends. In his opinion if Bonacieux could not keep such a wonderful woman as Constance happy then he deserved to be cockcolded. He made a small face, d'Artagnan with his provincial Gascon values probably wasn't quite ready to hear that just yet.

Maybe, after he had been in Paris a little longer.

"Who's Phillippe?" d'Artagnan was peering at the dedication. "And what did Athos sacrifice?"

"Phillippe is a horse breeder of Athos' acquaintance," Aramis thought there was no harm in telling that much. "And I have no idea what he sacrificed. Since I am insatiably curious I asked him when he first lent me the book and he said _as it turned out nothing at all._ Make of that what you will."

"Aramis," Robert the Garrison Blacksmith brought over a small cloth wrapped bundle. "I finished it. Just the way you asked. It's a right clever idea."

"Part of Porthos' birthday present," Aramis told d'Artagnan in response to his curious look, after he had thanked Robert for his labour and paid him the agreed sum. "Have you given any more thought as to what you might get him?"

"I thought perhaps a nice shirt," d'Artagnan ventured, looking to see if Aramis approved. He didn't have much money to spare but he had so few opportunities to repay his friends for their kindness he wanted to do something special. "Something, he could keep for best. Constance said she could give me a good price on an offcut from a large order of linen they've just got in for some important customer. She said she'll make it up for free as her present to Porthos, so the only really expensive bits will be the buttons and the lace."

"I can't help with the buttons but I can introduce you to a young lady of my acquaintance who can give you a good price on the lace, something that will suit Porthos' flair for the dramatic." Aramis offered kindly.

D'Artagnan didn't even care that he blushed a deep red as Porthos regarded the shirt with a delighted expression before declaring it _the best one I've ever owned _before pulling him into a tight hug and tousling his hair. He was just happy that his gift was a success. Aramis' present was a beautiful embossed leather belt with an elaborate silver buckle, which on closer inspection housed a wicked little knife in place of the tongue. _Dead handy that for the next time we get captured, _Porthos had beamed. Athos had presented him with a small, rather tatty looking, book which had d'Artagnan straightening in concern. Surely out of all of them Athos could afford something better? Until he realised the gift had actually moved Porthos to tears, as he hugged Athos fiercely. Apparently the book had some special meaning to him, which d'Artagnan supposed explained why Athos had been dragging him around every second hand bookshop in Paris in order to find a copy.

"You're a bloody marvel you are." Porthos had declared thickly. "All of you."

"Oh we're not done yet," Aramis beamed. "What kind of a birthday would it be without a party? Athos bought the wine. Treville contributed some bottles of brandy. Serge has gone all out with the cooking. And I have sourced some of the most perfect melons you will ever see."

"Melons?" d'Artagnan wondered.

"You'll see," Athos advised him dryly. "Some things cannot be explained. They simply must be experienced."

* * *

As mornings after the night before went it had been an extremely sobering experience to wake up to the news that Porthos had been arrested for murder. It was even worse to discover that he had had no memory of anything much after he had left the Garrison. Aramis had peered unhappily at the extremely large goose egg on the back of Porthos' head which but since it could have happened in a fight or a fall it shed absolutely no light on the matter.

Everything after that had been a revelation to d'Artagnan. The court of miracles where Porthos apparently had friends that even _Aramis_ trusted to keep him safe. That one of the truest gentlemen d'Artagnan had ever met was born and raised amongst thieves. That _Athos, _the most dutiful of them all, was so tolerant of such depravity, dispensing alms and advice to the beggars instead of arresting them. And neither one of them had ever voiced the question burning uppermost in d'Artagnan's mind. After everything they had been prepared to do to clear Porthos' name he was beginning to realise these men were even closer than most brothers. It seemed there was _nothing_ they would not do for each other.

"Oi, something's bothering you," Porthos nudged him. "This is supposed to be a celebration. So, spit it out."

D'Artagnan blinked as he was brought back to the sights and sounds of the tavern where the now un-condemned man had eaten a hearty meal. By mutual consent they had avoided the Wren, instead choosing a more respectable establishment, closer to the Garrison where the Musketeers were well known and Red Guards rarely ventured. None of them were looking for any trouble. Not tonight.

"I owe you an apology," d'Artagnan admitted, shamefaced. "The others never doubted you. But I thought maybe if it was an accident .."

"If I was drunk I might have killed him? I don't blame you," Porthos assured him, leaning over to tousle d'Artagnan's hair in a slightly clumsy way which suggested he was not entirely sober. "For a while there even I thought I had done it."

"They did everything they could to save you," d'Artagnan thought he might be a little drunk himself as he struggled to glance over at Athos and Aramis who were fetching more wine. "Aramis flirted with a woman old enough to be his grandmother, inspected corpses and kicked down doors. Athos faced down priests and noblemen. He even donned a disguise and went into the court looking for you. I think his feelings were hurt when you didn't want to see him."

"You oughtn't to have gone and done that," Porthos scowled fiercely at Athos as he put two fresh bottles of wine on the table. "The Court's no place for outsiders. You could have been killed."

"I defeated two of them easily," Athos neglected to mention the pistol to his head and the knife to his throat. "I only retreated because Charon told me you were safe. I imagine he did not bother to pass along my message that your friends would clear your name."

"Charon tried to turn me against you. He taunted me for my faith in you. Said you were nowhere to be seen, that you'd abandoned me first chance you got."

"Please," Aramis' tone was light, but the way his hand covered Porthos' where it rested on the table and squeezed gently, spoke volumes. "You should know by now it's not that easy to shake us off."

"I know," Porthos' eyes turned serious. "It's just. It's hard, you know. Coming face to face with the man you once was."

"Strange how that has happened to all three of us recently," Aramis mused. "Athos, returning to le Fere, me and Marsac, you seeing Flea and Charon for the first time in years. Its as if the Universe is trying to tell us something."

"What?" Porthos shook his head. "Don't look back?"

"Or perhaps, be grateful for what you have now," Athos surprised them all.

"Athos is right," Aramis agreed. "You left the Court for a reason and when you saw the gunpower you acted like a Musketeer. It's what saved the Court in the end."

"Flea told me you helped her," Porthos looked fondly at Athos. "I'm grateful. She really cares about the people in the Court. Lots of lives are going to be better 'cause of her. Charon was always more about what was in it for 'im."

"I cannot apologise for saving your life," Aramis told him. "But I am sorry that I had to kill your friend to do it."

"Don't be," Porthos shook his head sadly. "Charon was already looking for a way out. He never could have stayed in the Court after what he did. Better he died swiftly at your hand than what would have happened once people there found out how he betrayed them."

"I seem to be hearing that rather a lot lately." Aramis managed, with a shaky laugh. Athos silently topped up his glass and Porthos laid a warm hand on his shoulder.

"You know," d'Artagnan sensed a change of subject was in order. "Treville told us you had fought harder than any of us to become a Musketeer. It must have been quite a journey?"

"It started with Treville," Porthos grinned fondly. "I'd got into a fight with this man who was trying to force a young girl from the Court. She was all over dirt but beautiful with it, trying to scrape an honest living selling buttons. He wanted something more and thought because she was poor it was his for the taking. I wiped the floor with 'im. Treville saw everything. He liked the way I fought and the reason that I did it. He made it so I had a chance to earn my commission."

"What he won't tell you is how he came to catch the King's eye," Aramis brightened as he took over the conversation. "Think broken carriage wheel, sea of mud and an elderly dowager Duchess, the size of a house, in the in arms of her gallant rescuer, who she then insisted on kissing, full on the mouth."

"Not exactly my proudest moment," Porthos admitted ruefully. "But the King was grateful so it earned me my commission."

"Sometimes, it's just about being in the right place at the right time." Aramis agreed.

"What about you? How did you earn your commission?

"Oh, I had already been a solider for some time," Aramis was deliberately vague as to the reasons behind that. "During the visit of a Spanish envoy our noble Monarch organised a shooting competition between his entourage and the King's Guard. I carried all before me. Treville was just beginning to put together the Musketeers and before I knew it here I was."

"So, Porthos earned his commission through his physical strength, Aramis got his through his skill with a musket," d'Artagnan could not pretend he did not have a vested interest in the subject. He was desperate to find a way to earn his own commission. He looked at Athos. "You must have done something brilliant with a sword?"

"Actually, he was a proper hero." Porthos smiled.

* * *

The sound of galloping hoof beats approaching the musketeers' garrison in the centre of Paris never brought welcome news, accompanied as it inevitably was by the cries and curses of disgruntled citizens who were forced back to the sides of overcrowded streets or left to watch as their wares were overturned. According to the turn of the seasons the same unfortunates might be soaked by puddles, splattered with mud, or covered in clouds of dust. It spoke of a desperate urgently. Standing on his balcony as the exhausted messenger brought his foam flecked mount to shuddering halt in the middle of the courtyard, Treville knew the news would be bad.

"Captain Treville," The messenger called. "I have urgent news for Captain Treville."

"He's upstairs," Porthos approached the man. "I'll show you the way."

"Let me take your horse," Aramis offered. "She looks like she has run her heart out for you. We'll find her a nice, clean, dry, stall and make sure she has everything she needs."

"I have to get back there," The man looked anxious. "They'll need my help."

Both man and beast looked dead on their and fit for nothing. Whatever was going on it was bad. Aramis and Porthos exchanged an anxious look and it was clear they were both thinking the same thing.

_Athos._

"Talk to Treville," Porthos, ever the practical one, decided. "He'll know what to do for the best."

Yesterday Treville had sent a select company of men under the command of the newly promoted Captain Cornet with the King on an overnight hunting trip. He had deliberately included Athos in the party in the hope that it would bring the fine swordsman and brilliant tactician to the King's notice, in order to earn his commission. He had decided that sending Aramis and Porthos as well would only encourage mischief.

He was regretting that now.

"A landslide?" Aramis paled, when he called them into his office to break the news. "How many were lost?"

"Apparently, it covered almost the whole village. It was simply too quick. The winter rains flooded the area and eroded the soil." Treville was grim. "It was merely good fortune that the King's entourage happened to be passing by. His Majesty ordered every able bodied man to render their assistance. Duc and Comte worked alongside ostlers and page boys to free the victims from the wreckage."

"And Athos?" Porthos asked, his tone full of worry for his friend.

"The King himself has reported how Athos worked tirelessly to free the survivors," Treville scrubbed a hand over his face. "After Cordet was injured, Athos oversaw everything, organising the searchers into teams, many more lives were saved due to his fine leadership. But if I know him he won't leave until he is quite sure nothing more can be done."

As the carts loaded with survivors began to roll in they all did their part. Aramis worked into the night tending to the wounded. Porthos carried copper after copper of hot water to clean away the mud and blood and offered around bowls of broth to fortify those who hovered between life and death.

"Athos took command as if he was born to it," Cordet told them, when he was helped into the infirmary, looking pale and wan due to his broken arm. "When I last saw him he was tired but focused on helping as many as possible. I am sure he will be back safely as soon as he can."

It was almost dark when the last cart arrived. A whole generation of children, plucked from their buried school room. A number bruised, battered and likely to be haunted with nightmares from their ordeal. But alive and well enough to find safety and solace as they were reunited with their loving parents.

And there, _finally_, was Athos.

He was almost unrecognisable. His uniform caked from head to toe with thick, grey, mud, his hat was missing, his hair was soaking wet and sticking up in wild tufts, his face was pale as a ghost and his usual piercing gaze dulled with the horrors he had seen, the dark circles under his eyes looking like deep bruises. And his hands, still encased in their black leather gloves, dripped little circles of blood into the dirt.

"Athos," Aramis was the first to approach him, stopping just short of touching him. "It's good to see you, my friend."

"Tend to the others," Athos ordered his voice hoarse with weariness. "They will have need of your skill."

"Everyone else is being cared for," Porthos assured him, stepping up beside Aramis. "Let us help you."

"I'm fine," Athos swayed noticeably. "I should report to Treville."

Porthos caught him firmly by the arm before he could list too far to recover his balance and pushed him down onto the bench by the table. That Athos did even appear to notice that he had been thus manhandled as his head simply dropped forward onto his chest only increased his friends' anxiety.

"You just sit there for a mo'," Porthos spoke kindly, giving Athos' shoulder a pat in reassurance. "I'll go fetch Treville."

Left alone together Aramis watched as Athos covered his face, the small spots of moisture appearing in the dirt by his feet and the trembling of his shoulders the only signs that he was grieving for those he had not been able to save. With a sigh Aramis stroked the unruly dark curls blinking away his own tears as he attempted to comfort his usually stoic friend.

"Here, this might 'elp him along." Serge appeared at his elbow bearing a bottle of the best wine the pantry had to offer. "It's the good stuff."

Aramis nodded his gratitude before pouring a large glass and kneeling down in the dirt beside his friend without the least sign of self-consciousness. Carefully placing one elegant hand on the exposed length of Athos' neck, he gently encouraged him to lift his head as he offered the drink. Athos eyed the glass for just a moment too long, before clumsily trying to wrap his injured hands around it. The glass shook noticeably as he attempted to bring it to his lips.

"Here, let me," Aramis intervened, taking the glass out of Athos' hands and ignoring the smears of blood on the stem as he held it to his friend's lips. "Drink what you can."

Athos obediently swallowed a few mouthfuls before wiping his glove across the back of his mouth and giving Aramis a grateful look as the wine seemed to revive him slightly. Grinning in relief Aramis gripped his thigh warmly in reply.

"Athos, thank God," Treville appeared looking tired and worn, but his eyes betraying his relief at seeing the last of his men finally home safe, even as he took in the state of him. "Are you hurt?"

"His hands are torn to shreds." Aramis spoke up.

"It's nothing," Athos used his teeth to pull off one of his ruined gloves, staring impassively at the palm of one hand, where the skin had been sliced and pierced by hours of laboriously moving rocks and stones, leaving deep lacerations. "It's just a few cuts."

Aramis, Porthos and Treville all exchanged worried looks that Athos simply did not seem to register the pain that such serious wounds must cause.

"And all that muck and the filthy water and the rest of it," Porthos reminded him gruffly. "Those cuts are gonna need tending."

"See to it," Treville ordered. "Athos, every man, woman, and child who survived owes their life to your quick thinking. The King wishes to honour you as soon as you are fit."

"And what becomes of the families of those who died in the mud and the mire because their Comte cared more about digging out a fishpond to supply his table than thinking about the safety and well-being of the tenants in the village who toiled to tend his lands?" Athos rasped his voice flat with fury. "Any fool could have foreseen that the land would become unstable when the winter rains came and what might occur. What honour will they receive?"

Treville's eyes flashed, even as his countenance visibly darkened at Athos words. He knew that the Comte who owned those particular lands, was young, arrogant and lackadaisical about his responsibilities, but he had never imagined such dangerous folly.

"The King will hear of it, you have my word," He vowed, putting a hand under Athos chin, forcing him to look him in the eye as he spoke the simple truth. "Do _not_ blame yourself, you did everything you could."

"Come on, my friend," Aramis took that as his cue. "Time to let someone else take care of things for a while."

He took one side and Porthos took the other, wrapping their arms tightly around Athos neither seeming to care that they were getting mud all over themselves as Athos somehow found the strength, with the help of his friends, to stumble upstairs.

Between them they carefully stripped him, Aramis' clinical eye taking in the myriad of bruises and small cuts that littered his body. Bathed and dressed in clean linens, his hands dressed and bound in soft bandages they barely managed to get him to take a half a cup of broth, before he collapsed, boneless with exhaustion onto the freshly made bed. Porthos deftly rolled him sideways, pulling the covers out from underneath him and settling in beside him, wrapping him in his arms, determined to keep the nightmares at bay. Aramis was already stripped to his linens and about to slide in on the other side when Treville knocked softly and put his head around the door.

"How is he?"

Aramis took a moment to look at Athos, his face paler than the linen sheets, his shoulders mottled with bruises, Porthos' chin tucked neatly against his shoulder.

"He'll be fine."

"So I see," Treville's eyes softened as he took in Athos sleeping soundly in Porthos' embrace. "I wanted to let him know that the villagers have been promised funds from his Majesty's own coffers for rebuilding. And he is expected at the Palace tomorrow receive his commission. If he's fit for it?"

"Porthos and I have had his pauldron on hand for some time now," Aramis gave an impossibly fond smile at the man in the bed who he would gladly follow to hell and back. "He'll be there, if we have to carry him."

Athos was rendered speechless when he saw the care and workmanship his friends had put into creating his pauldron, gently running one injured thumb over the fleur de lys in awe. Treville had beamed like a proud parent as he buckled it into place. Aramis and Porthos had clapped louder than anyone and when an exhausted and injured Athos had reached even his limit and listed slightly to one side, Porthos' discreet hand under his elbow and the firm press of Aramis shoulder kept him upright and no-one else any the wiser.

* * *

"Hey," For the second time that night Porthos nudged d'Artagnan. "Don't look so glum. Your time'll come."

"I hope so."

D'Artagnan forced a smile. He wanted to be a Musketeer with all his heart, but even with his friends and Treville all championing his skills, it would all come to nothing if he couldn't find a way to catch the eye of their mercurial Monarch.

"I tell you want," Aramis put in expansively. "Treville has me running an errand tomorrow. Some secret package the Cardinal wants fetching to Paris in order safeguard royal security. Why don't I ask the Captain if you can come along? I don't have all the details yet but with the King, Cardinal and Treville all on board it could be an ideal opportunity to earn your commission."

"Really?" d'Artagnan brightened. "I'll do anything."

"What sort of package?" Athos enquired.

"I have no idea," Aramis said blithely. "I'm to report to Treville in the morning for my final orders. But apparently it's only a day's journey there and back and if Treville thought it was only a one man job how much trouble can it possibly be?"


End file.
